Apparitions and Their Untimely Returns
by ShallowShadows
Summary: It seems no matter how many cases they take, another eventually leads back to the mafia. Well-known detective brothers Dean and Sam are still traumatized by their last mob-related cases, but can't help their desire for a big break and justice—except they don't mean to drag that Castiel guy into it too. AU, Dean/Castiel, minor Sam/Castiel
1. Ghosts 'n' Stuff

A/N: As with most of my chapter fics, I do my best to research as much as I can. I spent quite a bit of time looking into being a detective, the NYPD, and Brooklyn's neighborhoods, hunting down one that supposedly has real Russian mafia. (Admittedly, I've altered things like the Brighton Beach library though.) In the end, however, nothing is better than living it, so if any of you happen to be from Brooklyn or are currently living there and are interested in helping me better this fic, please message me! Thanks a ton!

Also, just to clarify. My heart tends to be open to my favorite characters in more than one pairing, as is the case with Supernatural, where I love Destiel but also Sastiel among a bunch of other pairings with the boys. I wanted to attempt to integrate both of my favorite non-canon pairings into this fic somehow, so let's see how it goes! I hope this doesn't deter anyone too severely who prefers one over the other and you'll give it a read anyway with an open-mind! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, nor any of the characters from it. I don't make money off of this story.

**Updates every two weeks on Mondays. I'm not sure of the chapter count because I always write more than I expect to from my outlines.**

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**Apparitions and Their Untimely Returns  
_Chapter 1 Ghosts 'n' Stuff_**

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If it were possible for Dean Winchester to publish a book about his life, he was certain it'd be a best seller for sure. With everything he'd seen over the years as a detective, plus all of the shit Sammy had seen without him, he'd had enough to publish a novel that'd top even the Harry Potter books in page count and certainly be interesting enough to disturb, amuse, and induce just about every other emotion in existence. But Dean didn't write and didn't have the patience to, and he certainly didn't have the time even _if_ he had the patience.

The Winchester brothers had this infamous reputation as cops in Brooklyn, so it came as no surprise the day their co-worker came knocking at their door to eagerly share with them a new case that had just happened. Apparently outside of Oceanview Dental, an elderly man was shot and later pronounced dead at the hospital. Another man in his mid-thirties named Jimmy Novak had been standing beside the elderly man when it happened. Witnesses say the two had just come out of the building and were chatting about children and the weather, all of the typical "normal" person stuff.

And that, just outside 3061 Brighton 6th Street, was where all of their new troubles began.

After Sam and Dean had been approached with the fresh case and accepted, they'd gone straight to the station to gather as much info as they could from what was currently known. That was always their first step—gathering the known facts. And things seemed to be going smoothly as they acquired what they needed and were then off to investigate on their own.

Dean paid a visit to their key witness Novak's house, informing the witness that he needn't come to the station because it lacked the comforts of home, where conversations would be most "casual." At least, this was the typical bullshit Dean spewed to people. And, as per usual after the initial interview, he left to reinvestigate the crime scene in person, trying to remake the events that had occurred in his head.

Meanwhile, Sam had spent a good part of his day handing out condolences to the family of the victim, while also questioning them without much luck. He hadn't been expecting some miracle from the family, just motive. Why was the family's relative fatally shot? Who'd ever want to hurt him that way? What may he have done in his life to anger the wrong people? Or was it all just a random act of hatred, anger, and malice? Maybe a case of wrong place, wrong time? However good Sam was at getting information, the family seemed to have the exact same questions, overwhelmed with sorrow, grief, and confusion, so he ended up leaving them be for now.

By the time they both meet back at the station the next day, that same eager co-worker who informed them of the case in the first place comes barreling toward them, excited and flailing his arms like a kid, which, well, he kind of was. Both of the Winchester boys quirk brows and exchange quick glances. "Dean! Sam! Thank God you're in. I wish you'd been back yesterday. One of the other witnesses came through!" Now _this_ gets their positive attention. "I was going to call you, but I got distracted with paperwork—"

"Get to the point, Kevin, we don't care why you didn't call," Dean snaps, voice low and warning. When he and Sam are on a case, they try to take it seriously. Though they often joke with each other behind-the-scenes to get through the more gruesome things they encounter on a regular basis, they refuse to do so around other coworkers, especially the easily impressionable young newbies. They have a reputation to hold up, after all.

"I, uh, sorry." The man's smile tips upset down and he rubs the back of his neck with one hand as he hands over documents with the other. Dean quickly scans over them while Sam's attention goes back and forth between the two. "You know the receptionist? The one who was working at the front desk of the dentist's office at the time of the shooting? She said there was another witness outside waiting for a bus when it happened."

"Did she remember what this witness looked like? Any identifying attributes?" Sam asks, eyes flicking from the documents in Dean's hand back to the rookie cop.

"Got you one better. The girl was a patient there," Kevin responds, reaching for the documents and flipping them to a specific page. "Receptionist said she was even flirting with what looked like one of the men involved before it all went down."

Dean looks up from the documents and exchanges another look with Sam, their faces unreadable as they seem to know exactly what is in each other's minds without the need of facial ques. The older Winchester hands the documents over to Sam before crossing his arms, eyes accusing. "How'd you even get this intel?"

Kevin grins. "Well, while you guys were out working the case, I decided I'd do some digging of my own." Seeming excited and proud, chest practically puffing like a bird, he goes on to say, "The receptionist is being treated for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder along with other witnesses at Methodist Hospital. I was there earlier today and I got her to talk to me without having another blackout episode. That's why we were having so much trouble getting anything out of her, you know? Her head was blocking it all out."

"We already knew the girl was screwed up from what she saw and wouldn't talk. I was _only_ asking how you found out what she saw, assha—" Sam quickly cuts Dean off, shooting him a quick glare before eyeing Kevin with a serious look.

"And you didn't inform one of your superior officers of your actions?"

"Well, no." Kevin's shoulders slump a bit. He glances at anything but the two men before continuing. "But I was off-duty, so I figured no one would allow me to do what I did anyway."

Dean scoffs and Sam glares at him for the second time for being so rude. But Dean, as expected, doesn't care about his brother's ideas of how they should treat the younger officers. "Kevin, look," he starts, staring the rookie officer in the eyes. "I've got mad respect for you for being the youngest guy currently on the force at only 22, but you're still _under supervision_. When you're off-duty, you're not allowed to be involved with the cases. Those are the rules. We don't make 'em, but we've gotta enforce 'em. If you _don't_ follow them, I'll have to inform the big guys. You got me?"

A small gulp and nod later, and Kevin is apologizing as if his life depends on it, which, well, it may if it came down to their higher ups getting involved. "Shit, I'm sorry—really sorry. Please don't tell Lieutenant Mills. I'll be so toast."

"We'll let it slide, but don't keep doing it or I swear you'll be gone faster than you can eat one of those damn fake hotdog things you like. Now get the hell out of here and go home." Dean's warning seems to settle in Kevin's head immediately and he watches as the younger cop rushes out of the building at a speed that seems only a cheetah can compete with. Only after Kevin leaves does Dean's intimidating expression melt into a wicked look soon mixed with a twisted noise of laughter escaping his lips.

"Oh, come on, that was _mean_," Sam murmurs, walking with Dean to their desks. He's flipping through the documents Kevin gave them with a look of focus even as he speaks, having mastered the art of multi-tasking at this point.

"Oh, come on yourself," Dean responds, still laughing. "That was freakin' _awesome_."

Sam rolls his eyes and takes a seat, setting the documents down as he pulls up the digital copy of them Kevin uploaded for them as per usual. By now he is used to Dean's antics, but he isn't any less judging of them. "Well, if you're done messing around, we've got a case to solve."

"Yeah, yeah, Sammy. Getting right on it." The low, unamused response follows as Dean plops down at his own desk, slower to flick on his computer and taking his sweet time. Hey, he hasn't eaten in hours. He works slower on an empty stomach.

Sam takes a moment to respond with one of his typical snarky remarks, finding something really interesting on his screen. He does speak up eventually as his eyes dart across a specific section in the documents. "Why do you insist on still calling me that even after all these years of me repeatedly telling you to st—? Whoa, shit. Dean."

Dean knows that tone. He smirks and rolls his chair over, leaning in. "Sup?"

"So get this," Sam begins, using the mouse pointer to highlight what he was examining. "The girl Kevin was talking about, the other witness? Look at her name."

Dean leans over further, practically on the edge of his chair as he tries to read the smaller print sprawled across Sam's screen. The name he highlighted reads, "Becky Baker." Dean literally falls forward and off his chair from leaning so close to make sure he wasn't seeing things, just barely missing bashing his chin off something and crashing into his brother before recovering. "Jesus Christ, the stalker chick? The one who had pictures of you plastered around her room, some of which were from your private Facebook account and some you never even posted?"

Sam shifts uncomfortably at the memory. "I'd really rather that case stay far in the back of my mind. She was literally the creepiest female our age I've ever dealt with and now we're going to have to deal with her _again_."

Small bits of laughter escape Dean's lips despite the harsh look now directing itself at him. "God, she had a raging lady-boner for you the size of Baby and couldn't control herself like a sane human being."

"Don't forget she also wrote detailed fiction of _us_. You and me. _Doing it. _Which, being that it's some fantasy fiction thing people like, I wouldn't have cared had she not done all of that other stuff that crossed the line." Sam says all of this very matter-of-factly, giving Dean a raised eyebrow look.

Dean only bursts out laughing, leaning back in his chair and slapping a thigh. "Oh, I was just a placeholder for _her_, man." And he waves a hand dismissively. "If she was really into that fantasy shit the way other chicks are, she wouldn't have made me so girly when I'm not. She would've tried to make me accurate to the hot, macho man I am in the flesh."

"Or maybe you're just really girly and you don't realize?"

"Is my hair long enough to braid or put into pigtails? No, wait, that's _you_."

Sam's brows furrow and his mouth drops open a bit. "Jerk," he says, a mock laugh-sigh hybrid having slipped out before the word.

"Bitch," Dean huffs back, crossing his arms.

"Well, now that you're satisfied with mocking my pain _and_ my physical traits, I can point out another interesting fact to you." The younger Winchester shifts to click a few pages deeper into the document, pulling up the recent info Kevin had achieved from visiting the hospital. "Notice anything about the witness testimonies thus far?"

Dean squints. "Shit. They all say it looked like the shooter was aiming for _Novak_."

"Bingo." Sam leans back and places his hands in his lap. "But what I don't get is, if that poor old guy was just a 'wrong-place, wrong-time' victim, then what the hell did Novak do to piss off these guys? He comes off like a devout Christian and family man."

"Never trust the devout Christian family men, Sammy. _Never_. You know how the saying goes."

Sam's eyebrows angle down and come together. "I thought that was 'the quiet ones,' Dean."

"What?"

"The saying you were referencing. It's 'Never trust the quiet ones.'"

Dean's lips purse in thought before he responds. "Well, it applies to everyone in our profession, really. Doesn't matter what the original saying is. Stop going all Stanford on my ass, you bitch."

The younger Winchester rolls his eyes and entire head like he would never be used to the ridiculous things that come out of his brother's mouth. But Dean was going to be Dean and they did, despite their differences, work extremely well together versus anyone else. In other words, Sam wouldn't replace Dean for anyone even if the department raised his pay tremendously, and he was sure his brother felt the same.

Dean suddenly flinches when his phone goes off, blaring some old rock song from the 80's loud enough to blow the speaker out, which causes a chain-reaction in Sam. Dean shifts and picks the phone up, smirking at Sam's huff of air purely through his nose. "Hello?"

"Dean? It's Ash_._"

"Oh, awesome!" Dean can't help the flicker of excitement that rushes through him whenever their favorite lab techy gives them a call. "Any word back yet on the bullet?"

"No, sir. Gonna be a while still. But I did hear from Jo when she came by to drop off some other case's evidence to the lab."

The small disappointment is met with curiosity. Why hadn't Jo been calling him then? Dean glances up to find Sam staring straight at him, waiting patiently and giving him that eyebrow look thing he gives when expecting Dean to spill the beans. He mouths a few choice words to Sam which earns him an impatient look. "Yeah?"

"She said she can't call you back yet 'cause Ellen's on her ass about workin' this case with you. Ellen seems to think it's another one of those ones like what killed her hubby. Overprotective mama bear mode, y'know." Ash pauses, as if contemplating and Dean can hear a slight bit of laughter before he continues. "But anyway, Jo said that she managed to gather intel from some credible people. Looks like Novak may have owed the Volkov family money. And no, I don't mean the big name philanthropist couple that owns all the charities and builds parks around the city. I mean their estranged relatives."

"The fucking Volkov's?! The _Russian mob_ Volkov's?!" Dean literally jumps out of his seat and Sam's eyes widen as he follows suit after hearing the name said aloud. "Are you shittin' me?!"

"I wish I was, Dean. I remember what happened to you two the last couple of times. But Jo's intel is pretty solid, you know she's good on it. The one problem is that things like that are hush-hush 'cause nobody wants to be known as the traitor and get blasted in the back of the head for it, so good luck findin' a lead beyond this and some solid proof. I gotta go now; boss is on my ass. Ain't in the mood for it. Good luck and I mean that."

"Thanks, Ash," Dean murmurs, hanging up and eyeing Sam in disbelief like the two of them were just smacked upside the head with the information they'd been given.

Mafia. _Russian_ mafia. Jesus Christ as if this case couldn't have gotten any worse. Typically they could deal just fine with news of small town gang or cult violence, but mafia? Nothing but bad memories and luck. Those were the two cases Dean and Sam barely escaped from alive, with their bones and skulls hardly intact. It was dangerous territory for any cop, and the entire New York Police Department would need to be involved in some way if it were truly that kind of a case.

Dean slowly puts his phone down, sits, and rubs his temple, feeling a huge headache coming on. "So Novak could potentially owe the underworld Volkov's money," he begins to explain, not sparing his brother any of the important details as he also sits back down. "Trouble is it's mafia, so Jo's intel, however good they are, are being a bunch of chicken shits and won't give more than that."

"Shit," is all Sam can mutter in response, visibly nervous with the news. He clears his throat after a brief moment of silence before asking, "Do you think maybe you want to drop this and let the big guys handle it?"

"What, the FBI? They'll get involved regardless of what we do if it gets out of hand. I don't know. Maybe it's better that way."

Dean shifts in his seat, a leg bouncing up and down. Sam opens his mouth to speak more, but doesn't, closing it and looking away with his hands balled into fists. The two stay in silence for a while, the only sounds being other cops working on and chatting about other cases through-out the building. Neither wants to end up in the situations they'd been in in the past where a small mafia case like this blew up and almost got them killed. They had never dealt with the Volkov's personally, but they sure as hell knew those folks had a reputation like the families of their past and they aren't sure they want in with that.

The quiet would've stretched on if not for Dean's phone ringing again, the obnoxious sound of music echoing through-out their workspace. Dean slowly exchanges a glance with Sam whose former frustrations at their new discoveries turn to pure annoyance at Dean's damn ringtone. Well, at least something is going right—his successful "annoy-the-piss out of Sam" purposeful tactics, that is.

Dean finally picks the phone up after it had been ringing for a solid thirty seconds and doesn't check the name. "Hello?"

"I know you've got yer phone out, y'idgit. Why the hell did you make me wait?"

"Oh, hey, Bobby." Dean makes sure his smirk can be heard and he presses the speakerphone on this time. "I've got you on speaker so Sam can hear. Shoot."

"Jody contacted me sayin' you boys might be gettin' in over yer heads again. She just felt it and we all know she's got good intuition or she wouldn't have been a sheriff elsewhere."

"And?"

"And? Christ, yer manners never change. And are ya? You boys know I'm here for any help you may need, retired or not."

Even though they'd just found out their case could be potentially mafia related, the flood of relief that goes through both Dean and Sam is incredible. Bobby had a way of making them feel at ease no matter how bad their situation got because he had been a damn good cop—and an even better dad to them where theirs had failed.

"Dean? Sam?"

The older Winchester sighs and swaps another look with Sam, who decides to talk in his place. "Yeah, we're still here, Bobby. We found out our case could be mafia-related."

Bobby grows quiet on the other end, but the small shifting noises here and there hint he is looking for something. His house is filled with books, research, and plenty of useful gadgets like police radios and testing kits, so despite his status as a mechanic now, he is still a cop at heart. "I guess Jody's gut was right. Elaborate what you need, boys, and I'll be on it. The G-men are going to get involved if it goes beyond a routine case, so you should nip it in the butt while you can. Solve it fast. Get the force in and keep it open to the whole team."

"You think we should still take the case?" Sam's eyebrow can't go any higher or else it'd fly off his forehead. Bobby knows what had happened before and had been the one to call them "idjits" for the extent of their involvement. So why in the world is he so on board with them taking this case?

"I think this is an opportunity for you boys. You've learned enough to better deal with cases like this and you know when to get out now. Our profession is dangerous, that's just how it is. Don't let certain incidents and mistakes forever mess with your chance of a big break."

Dean clears his throat and Sam nods, even though Bobby can't technically see either of them. "But the thing is, even if we know when to get out, what if that's not enough to be safe?"

"Keep it open, is what I said, boy. Have the entire department involved, make sure everyone knows everything. Don't go anywhere without someone knowing. Don't piss off the wrong people unnecessarily. Trace your footsteps. Don't let your guard down. Simple as that."

"But we—"

Bobby groans on the other end, interrupting Sam and sequentially Dean before either has the chance to argue. "Look, boys," he says, tone changing from annoyance to something neither of the two can quite put a finger on, "don't make this more complicated than it is. You're the best in that department, New York, and potentially the whole damn East Coast. You can do this and do it right."

"But what if we screw it up like the last couple of times, huh?" Dean interjects. "What then, Bobby?"

"Like I said, y'idjit. You've _been_ . With two different families. You've _learned_." He pauses, voice softening the slightest. "I have faith in you both. I don't think this case will be better in anyone's hands than yours. Call it intuition or blind faith; I know you boys'll be the best for this job. Don't hold yer past mistakes against yourselves. What's done is done and you'll do better this time around."

Both Sam and Dean shift in place, perhaps even reading the other's discomfort with the level of faith Bobby announces he has in them. Certainly they are aware of their reputations they worked hard to achieve, of their accommodations and skills, of their pure love of the job and helping people, but even the best cops have fears, and Sam and Dean know their limits as humans.

"Boys, just tell me what you need."

Dean nurses his bottom lip, eyeing Sam expectantly. "'Kay, Bobby," the younger Winchester begins, leaning to speak clearly into the phone resting on his desk. "We'll give you a call if we need help. For now we're going to get our heads together and figure out if we really want to do this."

"Alright. I'm going to give some of my contacts some calls regardless. And either way, you boys be careful. I've got more than a few scars, physical and mental, from my own mob encounters over the years. See ya."

"We will. Bye."

Dean doesn't say a word, simply reaching his hand over and pressing the "end call" button, his lip becoming irritated from the constant chewing. He locks eyes with Sam after a few moments and they have a silent conversation without the need of anything more than the emotion splayed across their features. This lasts at least until Sam decides it's enough.

"I mean, Bobby's right," Sam says finally, leaning against his desk. "This could be the big break we're looking for. But even if we take all of the necessary safety precautions—"

"We just don't go too deep is all. If it's bigger than Novak having just owed them money or we venture into the crimes of the family as a whole, then we're out. Simple as that."

A look of surprise moves across the younger Winchester's face, having expected the exact opposite response judging by the one of uncertainty on Dean's. "You sure?"

Dean seems lost in thought for a good while. That was what happened the last time and the time before that; they'd gotten too deep, having gone beyond just solving the case at hand and venturing into taking down each entire organization. They hadn't been able to resist the urge to end it all despite the danger, and it had gotten both of them extended hospital stays. "Yeah."

Sam takes a deep breath before plopping back down into his chair. "Well, okay then. But if I die first, I am so haunting your sorry ass."

"As if I'd let you die before me, Sammy." Dean's grin extends across his features and Sam feels a bit of relief at the normalcy they always manage to achieve despite how bad their situations get. "You're not getting out that easily. Big bro needs someone to annoy day to day who can handle me, and like hell Kevin fits the bill. The kid weighs 90 pounds and squeals like a pig when a spider crawls across his desk."

"You're really mean, you know that?"

"And you're a pissy bookworm. Your point?"

"Fair enough," Sam laughs, looking back through the files open on his computer. "So given what we know now, why don't you go and try interviewing Novak again? It's obvious he lied about more than a few things."

"'Kay." Dean shifts and tucks his phone into one of his pockets. "And what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to the library. There's someone I want to talk to there, you know, the receptionist from the dentist's office. She frequents it around this time everyday according to our files; it's one of the places she said she could be found if she's needed for additional questioning when on lunch break. Plus, it's a good place for me to wind down and get focused."

"Aww, but Sammy, don't you want to talk to your girlfriend instead? After all, we weren't the lucky ones who initially tried to question her."

"Fuck off, Dean," Sam grumbles, shrinking in his seat. "We've got enough out of Becky from what Kevin's said. Besides, there are other cops on this case, let's leave her to them."

A teasing smirk remains on Dean's face even after he moves to get his stuff together, but he doesn't dare say another word or risk one of Sam's "bitch faces" turning into something more dramatic, such as a coffee over Dean's head or worse—his Busty Asian Beauties monthly magazine showing up in his trash can shredded again.

"So I'll be over at Novak's. Not sure how long it's going to take me with traffic and his annoying habit of rambling. Give me a buzz if you need me."

Sam simply nods and hands Dean a MicroSD card, his eyes not leaving his computer screen. He's skimming through file after file while they load onto his personal tablet, which an amused Dean mentally notes has a new case that now lacks the shorter man's sharpie doodles and the poorly written "Sammy's Shiny Magic Lightbox." "It has all of the case files thus far on it. I figured this would be easier than a flash drive since you seem to lose anything not loaded onto your phone. Just don't lose your damn phone and you're golden."

"Gee, thanks, Lisbeth Salander."

"Dean, just shut up and go to Novak's house already."

x

As expected, New York traffic delays Dean's time to Jimmy Novak's residence more than his patience can handle. By the time he's out of the city and into the suburbs, he's made a mental list of at least fifty people he wants to run over, bring back to full health, and then run over again. No matter how used to city life he's gotten, Dean still misses Delmar and its laidback southern style, where he and Sam would play on the old tire swing in Bobby's backyard and their dad actually drank a little less on those days because, for a brief moment in time, he'd not dwell on their mother's murder. Ah, yes. Good ol' Delmar.

Dean pulls his Impala in front of the Novak's duplex and casually parks, not caring much for the dirty look he receives from the little old lady that lives next door. He'd told her he hadn't meant to hit her trash barrel last time he was there and he'd meant it, but she just really hates his guts it seems. Regardless, all he cares about is that his precious Baby stays safe from little old lady wrath. Who knows what she'll do to her with that cane? Dean shudders at the thought.

Before he even steps outside of his car and closes the door, Dean already notices a few suspicious things. For one, there are no cars in the driveway and most of the blinds are shut. Of the few that are rolled up, no signs of movement or light show through the glass. Then there's the issue Dean takes with how the front yard has quite a few torn-up areas of grass that he assumes were made from furniture or other heavy objects being carried and accidentally dragged here and there across the lawn. Furthermore, what is up with the shed on the side of the yard? It's left open and empty.

When he glides across the walkway, up the stairs, and onto the porch, he notices the front door has been freshly painted and his suspicions jump. These people are clearly not simply renovating their home; they've been plotting to get away and are likely in the process of it right now. Naturally it'd make sense to be terrified after a close-call like the one Novak had, but this, _this_ screams, "We really do owe them money and now they're after us and we've gotta get the hell out of here," especially when Dean considers how those involved are under police protection at this point.

But if that _were_ the case, why paint the front door? Belongings he gets and they were clearly being taken away in a hurry, but spending the extra time to paint the front door of the house? What exactly is the purpose of that? Sure, it might make selling a house easier if needed, but typically if people screw to get away from the mob they don't bother with Mickey-Mouse'd home fixer-uppers.

Dean lifts a hand and bangs on the door several times, shouting the typical "NYPD, I'd like to ask a few questions" crap, but all he receives is silence. Clearly his knocks are being ignored or unheard after the 5th time he tries and still hears nothing. He peers in through the little front window but sees darkness and stillness. Nothing. Nothingness. Nada. Zip.

A frustrated grumble slips past his lips as he turns to leave. Well, this was a complete and utter waste of time that he wishes he hadn't bothered with. He's already in a bad mood over finding out the old man was completely innocent, but now discovering he'd braved New York traffic for close to nothing? He really wants to run over that old lady's barrel on purpose now.

Dean shoves his hands into the pockets of his suit and steps toward the edge of the porch—only to almost place his foot down on top of something someone else clearly let out a buttload of their own frustrations on. A phone, crushed and broken into pieces, lays off to the side on the second-before top stair, a few bits of paint and plastic chips stuck into the vertical panel of the step above it, broken glass from the screen scattered around. Dean bends down to examine the ruined device further and realizes, realizes he _recognizes_ this phone.

He swears he's seen it before, not because of the model or type being the most popular right now and spread across and in the hands of hundreds of people on New York's busy streets. No, but because of his career as a cop Dean remembers the little things quite well, such as how this particular phone has a red butterfly sticker folded along the right back corner, several small shapes making an intricate design on the wings and sparkles signaling that a child likely placed it there.

Jimmy Novak has a daughter named Claire who happens to love butterflies, Jimmy had said as much during Dean's initial interview with the man. And Jimmy Novak has, or well, at this point had, the latest of one of those fancy Android-powered phones that the TV commercials keep rubbing in everyone's faces, pressure for an upgrade eminent.

Dean takes his own phone and snaps some pictures, several up close, one from a medium distance, and another from father away to show the phone's exact placement. He notices the bend of wood in the backdrop, pushed in and a little rough, another sign the phone was likely chucked then stomped on. Clearly someone, Novak, his wife, a family friend, a neighbor, _someone_, wrecked that phone intentionally and Dean suspects it has something to do with this case. Whether it be that something was on the phone or that it was destroyed out of pure frustration over all of this, he intends to find out.

The older Winchester worries his bottom lip for a moment before quickly texting Sam with an update, informing him he's going to meet him at the library if he's still there. He doesn't say too much because they're cops and that's never a good idea to do over texts. Things just keep getting better and better.

x

If not for the fact that they have established themselves so well here in Brooklyn Dean swears he'd move back to Delmar in a heartbeat. After he's gotten back into the city he wants to run over several dozen more people and resists the urge due to his conscience and the fact that he's a "good guy," cops for justice and all that. Sometimes he wishes he wasn't so inclined to do the right thing thanks to Sam's influence; other times he is glad for it because he knows without his younger brother he'd likely be one of those rogue cop types everyone in the force wouldn't trust. That would suck.

He hasn't heard back from Sam since he was stuck in traffic, the longer-haired Winchester informing Dean that he'd be stepping out for food with a fellow cop and would meet back up with him there later for sure. It was one of their "go-to" spots because of Sam's researcher nature and how they both kind of liked the quiet atmosphere in comparison to their noisy lives. And while Dean definitely didn't mind that he'd likely have to wait around for a while if he were lucky enough to escape the traffic early, Sam's desire for food awoke a beast inside of Dean's own stomach.

Dean kicks a barrel outside of Brighton Beach's library branch while cursing several times at pigeons that won't seem to leave him and his Dunkin' Donuts sandwich alone, something he feels he's inclined to enjoy after his mostly shit luck day. The server he'd gotten was clearly having a bad day as well because he hadn't managed to get her to crack even the slightest of smiles. To boot, the people behind him stepped on his heels at least eight times and a guy slammed head-on into him on his rushed way out, so Dean ended up leaving there in even further aggravation, not to mention physical pain.

Thus, he certainly isn't in the mood to defend his meal from angry feathered street fiends. He proceeds to swing at the group of pigeons stalking him and shoos them off with his sandwich gripped protectively in one hand. Dean doesn't care if anyone judges him for the weird noises coming out of his mouth as he yells at them either. It's _his_ sandwich dammit. God, he hates birds.

"You know, if you swat at them like that they're just going to come back anyway," a voice says from his left. "They're city birds and not afraid of people at this point in time."

Dean turns and his eyes focus in on a man sitting on a suitcase. He's going through a bag of groceries, one of those reusable totes, and pulls out a six pack of some sort of fruity-looking drinks. Dean can tell it's not alcohol. Well, dammit again, a beer would be nice right about now. "Huh. Didn't notice you there."

"No one really notices me in general," the man responds, hood of his wash-faded sweatshirt slipping off as he turns to look at Dean as well, big blue hues reflecting sunlight from passing cars. "I'm one of those people that fade into the background. I was the quiet one in school, you see."

"Oh, the weird ones people warn everyone about—?" Dean interrupts himself when he examines the face staring back at him. What the hell was Novak doing at a library of all places when he's been apparently scrambling to get out of town and wrecking his carefully cared for lawn in the process? Was he really so stupid to stick around at a public place? And why wasn't he freaking out at Dean's presence?

"Hmm, I suppose some do turn out to be dangerous, so I see the stereotype. People shouldn't assume though. Some of us just didn't feel the need to talk much unless prompted is all, such is the case with me."

"Huh. Didn't think of it that way." Dean decides to play along to get his answers, hands tucking into his pockets as he gets closer to the man speaking with him as if they're on casual terms and not in the middle of a murder investigation. He peers down at the drinks Novak's fiddling with and quirks a brow. "You drink that crap too?"

"Huh?" The older man looks up at Dean with a sincerely confused face.

"V-8," Dean clarifies. "My brother likes it too."

"Oh." Novak looks back down at the six pack of cans in his lap and frowns a bit before pulling one out then putting the rest back into the tote. Dean can't help noticing the glimmer of sadness there and wonders why he feels a little _bad_, why he almost wants to apologize even despite thinking the emotion has little to do with what he said and more to do with deeper issues.

When he opens his mouth to add something and gets cut off, he's surprised for more than one reason. "I'm a vegetarian."

An eyebrow skyrockets up once more on Dean's forehead and he leans against the wall. "Really? After all of that junk I saw you eating yesterday?"

"I need a pick-me-up in the afternoon that's not coffee and this tends to do it."

"Yeah, well, I feel you there. Too much of the McD's and coffee has the opposite effect. All those burgers you nervously scoffed down while chatting with me was crazy, man."

"Caffeine makes many people tired after the initial jolt, so that's not surprising—what?"

"Our conversation at your house yesterday, you know, early in the afternoon," Dean says, cool as can be and switching into his tough-guy detective mode. His eyes dart down to stare directly into the bewildered look he's receiving, not caring to be gentle or polite when he continues to speak. "I'm sure you're not suffering from short-term memory loss suddenly, Novak, so let's cut to the chase. Where were you in such a hurry to scurry off to after I spoke with you? Strip club? Or maybe the mistress? That fresh coat of paint on the front door looks good, at least. Can't say the same about your lawn though."

The man looks down before sighing. "You mean my brother Jimmy."

"Brother?" Now it's Dean's turn to be confused. "You think I haven't heard that kind of crap before during cases?"

"It's the truth."

"Dude, don't mess with me. I've got more than enough reasons to drag your ass back to the station right now."

"We're twins, identical twins."

Dean is taken aback by the calm words that trigger a memory, particularly the second part. He thinks back to when Sam was doing some research on the case yesterday at their apartment, tapping away on his computer when he stumbled across something not obvious on the surface level. He'd called Dean over and showed him immediately, at which point both Winchesters had to exchange looks with "huh, well, okay then"-faced nods.

"Twins? _Twins_. I remember when Sammy and I read about that. Shit, no way. _You're_ his brother? So you're not just Jimmy messing with me and trying to get away?"

"I assure you I am serious and can provide proof if needed. I have no issues with cooperating."

Dean shakes his head, feeling like an idiot, though he makes a mental note to himself that identical twins are easy to mix up. Even _family_ members have difficulty telling the difference. "Nah, that's all right. No need. You'd be running if you were him. The guy's afraid of me."

"Are you looking for him, detective? The things you were saying, I can't help but wonder, is he in trouble again? There are quite a few reasons I don't really speak with him."

"How'd you know I was—?"

"You are Dean Winchester, are you not? I recognize you from my female co-workers' obsessive swooning over your brother and yourself on a regular basis," the man says quite matter-of-factly, the can he's holding rolling between his hands in a bored manner.

"Not surprised by the girls, but am surprised by your memory and ability to put two and two together."

"Narcissism is unflattering, detective."

"Oh, come on. Not even a 'thank you' for that compliment?" If the look Dean's receiving isn't annoyance than he doesn't know what is. A smirk the size of the Brooklyn Bridge perks up the corners of his cheeks and Dean lifts himself from his wall-pose to walk in front of the other man. "Sam and I? We get girls ogling over us all of the time. We're used to it because we're popular, young, good detectives. There's nothing narcissistic about that, right?"

It's when the man's eyes follow him with a continued irritation, focused on Dean like a cat would a red laser light trailing across a floor that Dean realizes this man is _clearly_ not Jimmy Novak and there is no proof in the world he needs to acknowledge that. It's his eyes that really get Dean. Jimmy Novak's are also blue, but not anything like the deep blue ones that stare back at him with a look hinting at the many layers upon layers waiting to unfold with this man's personality and life. It's then that Dean realizes something else—they're actually kind of beautiful.

"I'd rather not speak my opinion on the matter any further. You'd think overly pushy and rude of me." Those are the only words he finally says as he shifts his weight on his suitcase and takes a long swig of his drink.

"Dude, come on. You told me you're a vegetarian; I'm already going down that route of thinking. Speaking of which, you're the polar opposite of Novak personality-wise, and it's completely weird."

"Oh," the man says, tipping his head and narrowing his eyes with a mocking grin, "so you're one of _those_ people."

"See? I'm right, aren't I? That's why you're getting defensive. And by one of those people do you mean the kind that judges you meat-deprived bastards? Because in that case, yeah. I am."

The man actually laughs this time, albeit a tad bitterly, looking down and shaking his head. He tips back a bit on his suitcase, seemingly being careful not to fall over, but not avoiding the risk entirely. "Well, kindly, you're wrong. I'm not that type of person. I don't shove my diet down others' throats and try to harshly convert them."

"Those exist?" Dean asks half-serious, half-joking.

"Yes, detective." Novak's twin laughs again, seeming genuinely amused at this point, though his words are serious and clarifying with a little of the annoyance present when someone is stating the obvious. "They exist just as religious people who don't shove their beliefs down others' throats do."

"Well, shit. Now you make me feel like a judgmental ass. Sorry, I guess."

The other man laughs again, further amused with the older Winchester's confession and half-hearted apology. "It's all right. What I meant though, detective, was that you're the kind of person surprised when some identical twins aren't at all alike except in looks."

Dean laughs and the man grins. "Boy, you sure are good at making people look like idiots."

"It's a specialty of mine or so my elder siblings say."

If not for the large hand being placed on his shoulder and sound of his younger brother's voice, irritated and low, by his ear, Dean would've gladly carried on the conversation he was having with Novak's look-a-like sibling. He turns, eyes meeting Sam's with surprise and apology. He hadn't realized how he'd actually been enjoying himself so much that their conversation had been going on for quite a while.

"Dean. I texted you like, seven times. What the hell have you been doing?"

"Sammy! Uh, I got distracted. Look! Jimmy's twin, the one in the file we read about. Bumped into him and we started talking. Small world, right?" He glances to Novak's twin, then back to Sam, who's giving him an "I'm-going-to-punch-you-in-the-stomach-for-making-me-wait" face. "Sorry."

Sam's gaze trails to the man on the suitcase who smiles softly and lifts a hand to briefly wave. "So I see," the taller detective says, returning a polite smile before grabbing Dean by the shoulder and attempting to haul him towards the door to the library. "If you excuse us, we're on the clock and Dean's typical blabbermouth is wasting time. No offense intended towards you, of course. I'm sure you're very pleasant to talk to."

The man quirks a brow, eyes trailing up and down Sam like he's a very enticing piece of art, and Dean really, _really_ doesn't like that for some reason he can't quite put a finger on. It's definitely not the big brother protectiveness because he's never had a problem with non-creepy people checking Sam out. It's something else, something strange and familiar and Dean's head struggles to find the word for it.

"It's not a problem. I understand." Novak's twin smiles again and catches Sam's eyes as he drags Dean off. "Perhaps when the two of you are off-duty we can continue our little chat and you're welcome to join us."

By the time they're inside and have made it to their typical reserved private study spot in the back of the library, all Dean can think about is Novak's twin and why the hell he feels so weird about what just happened. But Sam, on the other hand, has lost his patience for dilly-dallying and is already trying to get the two of them back on track.

"Okay, so what is it you wanted to tell me?" he asks, taking a seat at their usual table while Dean joins him. He places his laptop bag onto the surface, some books and print-outs scattered across it that he hadn't bothered cleaning up yet since they reserved the entire room as usual.

"You know he was checking you out, right?"

"Dude, really? Seriously?" Sam gives Dean an aggravated look and he pulls his computer out, setting it down and flipping it on from sleep mode. "Just tell me what you originally texted me about."

"Like, I think he's into dudes, maybe both. Who knows? Definitely the opposite of Novak though. Novak likes just chicks."

Sam slams a book down onto the table and despite being behind a closed glass door a few workers outside of the room look up. Dean makes a surprised face and looks out the large window there, mouthing an apology that is met with a finger-hush by a woman putting books away. "Dean, for the love of God, will you shut up about his twin already? I'm sure he's an interesting and nice guy, but we've got a case in need of solving. From what we know he wasn't even raised with Novak, nor has much to do with him even these days."

"Yeah, but forget the case for a moment." Dean shifts in his seat and leans over the table, getting up in Sam's personal space with a teasing grin. "My little bro is getting man-crushed on. That's a big deal. Means you're so hot even dudes like you. I'm so proud of how you've matured—"

A swift kick to his shin makes Dean curse and back off. He gives Sam a pouty look which the younger Winchester ignores. "So the text. What'd you find out at Novak's?"

"You're no fun today," Dean murmurs before finally responding to the question Sam's been asking. "When I got to Novak's place, not only was he and his family absent, but there were more than a few suspicious things."

"Like?"

"Like a fresh coat of paint on the front door and drag marks across the front lawn. Oh, and there was this." Dean pulls out his cell phone and swipes his finger across the screen until he's reached the photos of Jimmy's destroyed device.

"Whoa. Is that—?"

"Jimmy's phone? Yeah. And take a look at this shot. There's a dent in the wood. Looks like it was chucked. Think Jimmy or someone else was trying to hide something? Texts? Pics?"

Sam takes Dean's phone from him to look more closely at the photos and Dean feels a headache coming on as he zones out momentarily. Even the murmuring of Sam trying to inform him of a theory goes unnoticed as he rubs his forehead, eyes focusing in on a printed article lying upside down in front of him. He turns it around when he notices the picture on it and the headline.

"Our Beloved Volkov's: A Real Asset to Our City," it reads, preceded by a photo of the Volkov couple and their children. Dean instantly recognizes Novak's twin, standing quietly to the side, the arm of one of his adoptive siblings hooked around his shoulder. He looks so much more handsome in person, Dean thinks, believing the photo doesn't do him justice.

It's then Dean remembers he didn't actually get the guy's contact info so they don't technically have a way to meet-up to chat again. He curses himself mentally when he realizes how absorbed his head is with the thoughts of another man, the last time when he stayed up late to watch that Doctor Sexy marathon last summer. God, that man is a genius.

"…ean! _Dean_!" Another book slamming down onto the table makes Dean flinch. He looks up to find Sam giving him a "Seriously?" face, eyebrows scrunched together. Someone clearly didn't have their share of fruit shakes today. "Earth to Dean, your phone's ringing."

The younger Winchester points to the device across the table he'd slid back to Dean a little while ago and Dean pulls it closer, taking a peak at the name on the screen. An eyebrow rises on his forehead. "It's Garth," he says, noticing the voicemail notification go off not long after the phone stops ringing. He lifts the phone to his ear to listen to the message.

"And?" Sam asks after a bit.

Dean furrows his brows and lowers his arm, staring at the screen. "He says it's urgent. Apparently his private investigating is getting tangled up in our case unintentionally."

"What? How is that possible?" Sam asks, sliding the book he'd hit on the table to the side. "How does he even know about our case?"

"Bobby. He's one of Bobby's trusted contacts, so he probably contacted him. He did say he'd contact a few."

"Okay, I get that now. But what did he say other than that he's getting involved in our case?"

Dean slides his thumb across the screen and goes to Garth's contact information. He debates calling him back, eyes shifting from his phone screen to Sam back to his phone screen, chin propped up on his free arm. Dean settles on waiting and he places the phone back down onto the table. He decides answering Sam first is the better option. "He said he was hired to investigate someone weeks before the murder—Amelia Novak."

* * *

A/N: As an additional note, I currently have eight different SPN fics planned with ideas ranging from as far back as January 2013; in order of ideas, "Apparitions" is actually fifth on the list. I just went with whichever fics, this and "Ah! My Angel," I was in the mood to write first. It's been a while since I've written and generally worked on chapter fanfics (the last time I touched my Hetalia ones were April 26th, 2012 and May 3rd, 2012 according to the files), so it's going to take some getting used to, especially considering I wasn't a regular updater. In other words, please have patience with me!


	2. Goodbye, Apathy

A/N: It's all falling into place and the romances have begun. I'm really looking forward to writing the chapter the last scene is hinting at for that very reason. Also, my apologies this chapter is a day late! I have college finals this week, finished the chapter late Monday night, and was unable to edit it entirely until today.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, nor any of the characters from it. I don't make money off of this story.

**Updates every two weeks on Mondays. I'm not sure of the chapter count because I always write more than I expect to from my outlines.**

* * *

**Apparitions and Their Untimely Returns  
_Chapter 2 Goodbye, Apathy_**

* * *

Dean doesn't get the chance to call Garth back himself because the moment he decides to pick his phone back up off the table it begins to ring wildly, Garth's name taking over the screen. Speak of the devil. The older Winchester shoots the younger a look, and Sam nods, so Dean doesn't hesitate to pick up this time. "Hey, Garth."

"Oh, Dean! You picked up! Hey!" Garth's ever-cheerful voice echoes on the other end as if he's in a tunnel or underwater, but Dean doesn't question it and instead puts the phone on speaker so Sam can also hear. "I thought you guys were ignoring me or something. Silly, right?"

"Yeah. _Silly_." Dean rolls his eyes. "Look, I put you on speaker. Why don't you reiterate to Sam and I what you shared in your voicemail, except, you know, details this time?"

"Speaker?! Dean, no, what if someone hears?! Other than Sam, I mean. Where are you guys?"

"Garth, we're in a library in a private reading room with the door locked. Besides, what if some asshat got ahold of my phone and listened to that voicemail before I could delete it? I don't think it's us you should be worrying about with screwing up."

Some silence followed by a sigh come through the other end of the phone and the two swear they can picture Garth nodding. "Fair enough," he finally says, though he doesn't sound convinced Dean was talking about him. "Anyway, so as I said in the voicemail, I was hired on what seemed like a pretty straightforward case, yeah? But things got weird fast."

"Yeah? Weird how?" Sam asks, eyebrow raised.

"Well, I found out that this woman, Amelia Novak, she's with her daughter, Claire, in Albany. But you see, they don't belong there because they were under order to stay in Brooklyn. They're the same Novak's you're investigating, according to Bobby. But that's not even the weirdest part."

Dean exchanges a glance with Sam, who decides to speak up again. "What's the weirdest part then?"

Garth's voice becomes more of an echo and a train can be heard in the background, which serves to help clarify the Winchester brothers' prior confusion on his location. Garth lowers his voice, as if attempting to hide his words from those around him, but the sudden loudness of outdoors mixed with the train halting to a stop, squeaks and scraping, make it hard for him to be understood. He says a single sentence, but it's completely inaudible.

"Garth, you've gotta repeat that, man, we couldn't hear," Dean says as loud as he can without disturbing the people outside of the room.

"Oh, uh, sorry! Hopping on a train."

"Yeah. We kind of get that. Why are you getting on a train?"

From the sound of things, Garth is pushing by chatty people to get through the doors and a thud from him likely plopping down onto a seat is heard. "Well, I've been following Novak. She got on this train heading to Vermont for relatives there or something, so here I am too. Ah, crap! She's looking my way; I think she might be onto me." The last part of the sentence is faded out and the two brothers guess he'd lowered the phone momentarily.

"Okay, look, Garth. Just tell us what you said before the train cut you off."

The man sighs in a way that screams relief. "Okay, nevermind. She wasn't even looking at me. Oh, yeah! I said, 'I think the man who hired me was Amelia's husband, Jimmy, using an alias.' I've been following her around for weeks now. The wife and daughter left Brooklyn for Albany and now they're staying in this crappy apartment close to the center of the city. So anyway, how have you guys been—?" Garth is cut off by Dean this time when he tries to speak again.

"Holy shit! No way. You sure?" Neither Sam nor Dean is in the mood for small talk when they've gotten such a good lead that helps clear up some of their findings today, so Dean is quick to keep the conversation on topic. So that's where the Novak's ran off to in such a hurry—Albany. It's a decent distance away in upstate New York, so they're not exactly surprised.

"Sure as I can be. Say, you guys wouldn't happen to know which places in Vermont have good beer, would you? I'm dying to try their home-brewed since it's a big industry for them, but I've no idea where to start."

"Garth, we're in the middle of a case and you're asking us where there's good beer in Vermont?" Sam gives Dean a dirty look when the older Winchester grins at his question. Beer might be their favorite, but they're in the middle of a very dangerous case, for crying out loud. "Besides, what makes you think it's Jimmy?"

"Because I saw him talking to Amelia all casually and kissing his daughter on the head right after the guy who hired me met-up with me. He was wearing the same clothes; the only difference was his face was uncovered."

They have their doubts when it comes to the accuracy of Garth's information whenever he calls them to "help." But Bobby has always been good to them, so they trust him, and if Bobby trusts Garth, then they'll at least give the guy a chance as they always do. Besides, with a case like this, they need all the help they can get.

"Okay, thanks, man. We appreciate you calling."

"Sure, not a problem. You know I'm here for you guys if you need me! I'll call back with any updates."

"All right. Take care and be careful."

"Right! You too."

Dean hits the "End Call" button then leans back in his seat, eyes drifting across the table with a certain doubt, but Sam knows better than to question it, especially when he himself is a little skeptical of what they'd just heard. Instead, he shifts in his seat and takes a deep breath. "So."

"So?"

"So I'd say that's another lead."

A snort-like laugh comes from Dean. "Oh, please."

"Dean, you know we could use every bit of help we can get." Sam realizes he's trying to convince himself of his own words and takes note of the way Dean turns to look at him as if he can tell.

"Yeah, but Garth?" The older detective leans his cheek against a fist so his words become a little muffled. "Last time we brought that guy along with us to help, he knocked himself out on a flag pole and was out cold for hours. Remember how when we found him the pigeons were shitting all over him?"

For a moment, neither of the men say anything, but Sam is the first to start laughing and Dean can't help following along only a few seconds later. They laugh so hard they have tears in their eyes and can't breathe quite right. They laugh so hard they can't hear the annoyed tapping one of the workers is doing on the glass. They laugh so hard they forget they're in the middle of a case that could easily get them killed long after it's over.

And it's then that it dawns on both of them that these brief moments of laughter, these serene and relaxed moments where they forget their worries, are going to be one of the only things that help them sleep at night. Through and through, it has worked every time over the years and they don't doubt it'll do just as well for this case. Whether or not they manage to have these moments each day is another story altogether, however.

When they finally calm down and their bellowing chuckles have calmed to grins, Dean wipes at his eyes, murmuring something about being too manly to cry, and Sam suddenly remembers something important he'd neglected to mention before.

"Oh, shit, Dean. I'm such an idiot. What Garth said? About Amelia skipping town?"

"Yeah?"

Sam folds his hands, fingers entangling, and presses his chin into them. "So I know he may not have all his ducks in a row and tends to think you can pull blood from a rock, but he may be onto something. I just remembered that while I was out for lunch, I spoke to a woman who said she lived in the same area as the Novak's."

"Oh? And?"

"She had been driving down their street when she saw Amelia and their daughter leaving the house in a hurry. She said she pulled over to check on them and Amelia just brushed her off, telling her they needed to go see a dying relative up in Vermont is all."

"So? They probably ditched town after the murder because they were freaked out and couldn't think of a better excuse."

"_So_ that was a few days _before_ the murder, Dean. And you found Jimmy's phone destroyed, didn't you?"

Two and two get put together as something clicks inside Dean's mind. He curses and punches the table with the bottom side of a fist. "Son of a bitch! They were probably getting threats and so Jimmy made the girls leave town. _That's_ why they weren't there when I interviewed him!"

"Bingo."

A frustrated groan escapes the older Winchester and he runs a hand down his face. That sneaky Novak. Protective husband and daddy mode must've kicked in the moment he'd gotten threats and he'd not even bothered to inform the police that he'd sent his family up north for their protection. Hell, he hadn't even informed the police of any threats, so why would he have bothered with the former?

"I'm going to try hunting down that bastard again. First I'll see if he decided to come back home for whatever reason, interview some more neighbors and all that just in case so it wasn't a wasted effort. Then I'll drive up to Albany if I've no luck here. I'll have Garth text me the address. I need to _gently_ remind Novak it's illegal to high-tail it out of town without notification when he's under police protection."

"Dude, you know despite getting into work this morning at eight, it's already two-thirty in the afternoon and that's like a three-and-a-half-hour drive, right?"

"So? I like driving. Reminds me of the cross-country trips we've made before and how much fun we had. I'll get there while it's still light out if I haul ass."

Sam shakes his head, but Dean only grins at him. "Or you're still just a chicken when it comes to planes."

"Well, if I'm a chicken, then I'm a chicken. Chickens don't fly, Sammy, and neither do I."

x

While Dean heads back to the Novak's residence, Sam decides he'll do some digging on their sudden choice to leave town. He figures he'll be able to get some things from the wife's co-workers. Dean, on the other hand, always prefers the main source, so he doesn't even bother arguing.

This time he's lucky enough to run into less traffic than usual, so he's in a slightly better mood than the last times. However, Dean's "slightly better mood" still involves wanting to kick Novak in the junk for being so damn stupid. He'd told him to stay in town and the station would assign different officers to watch their home, their daughter while she was in school, and both he and his wife while they were at work. Eventually, they'd even work on getting their names changed and hiding them somewhere far away. It was all part of the plan.

Apparently Jimmy didn't like or trust their plan if he kept his family up in Albany.

Dean pulls up in front of Novak's little duplex with a resolve unlike the one he'd had before. He hates being lied to even though lying is a big part of his own personality, but isn't that how it always worked? The "don't do unto others" saying is usually destroyed by that single exception you make for yourself each day that quickly multiples into a hundred.

He pulls the gear into park and steps outside of the car, tucking his hands into his pockets as he strolls across the walkway and up the front stairs. Well, even if Jimmy is still somewhere in Albany _someone_ has certainly been here. The phone is missing, only small shards of glass and plastic left behind, and the front porch's little swinging bench is creaking enough to signify that weight is currently rocking it along.

"Oh. Hello, detective."

Dean spots what he believes to be Jimmy, and immediately puts on his tough guy act. "Cut the bullshit, Novak, I know you abandoned ship to Albany," he says, eyes narrowing.

The other man is lying with his back against one of the thin armrests, legs crossed, hair a tousled mess, and even his clothes match the messy black locks in terms of neatness. He's wearing jeans, distressed fitted denim showing off his lean runner's legs, accompanied by a T-shirt that says some weird TV quote he recognizes but can't entirely put a finger on. This is topped off by a couple of silver bands on his right hand, the middle finger and pinky, and a vintage-looking watch on his left hand. His sweatshirt (the one he'd had on earlier), Converse, and socks are discarded on the ground next to a pile of books.

"Try again." A brow quirks up as he speaks, eyes settling on Dean like he's an exotic bird.

Dean feels like an idiot all over again, but he keeps his guard up just in case. "Lemme guess. Novak's twin again?" He may be on guard, but his tone has softened regardless.

"My brother is a neater dresser than I am."

"Shit. How the hell does anyone tell you two apart?"

"Some people say my eyes are darker than his and my voice is a little deeper, if that helps?"

Dean walks over to the man, extends an arm out, and grips onto one of the arm rests, inevitably stopping the swing in place. He leans in a bit, eyes squinting as he stares at the blue ones looking back at him in amusement. "Yeah, they are more of a sapphire color and your voice is more grunge rock metal or Batman than his could ever be," Dean murmurs as he backs away.

The older twin smiles at the comment, closing a book he'd been reading and placing it onto his lap as he swings his legs around to sit up. "I don't believe I introduced myself before. I'm Castiel Volkov."

"Dean Winchester, but you, uh, already knew that." There's this nervousness brewing in the pit of his stomach, something he's struggling to find a word for much like before when Sam had been checked out by this guy, except that this feeling is different. It's fluttery, flapping around in his stomach with a certain fury and quickly rising into his chest.

"Just as you already knew I'm Castiel, I'm sure, based on your comment to your brother before."

"I saw your name when Sam and I were originally reading into Novak, and later in an article about your parents, but it's better to hear you say it." Dean leans back against the railing, keeping his hands in his pockets. "I had no idea how to pronounce that crazy thing."

This time the other man laughs, shaking his head. "Well, I don't exactly expect people to be able to pronounce an angelic first name and Russian surname with ease," he says, eyes trailing up Dean in a fashion similar to how he'd been looking at Sam. Where Dean would typically be uncomfortable, he's surprisingly enjoying it.

However, he has a job to do and enjoying the flirtatious way another man looks at him when he's always known himself to be mostly straight (except, of course, for Doctor Sexy and a few select other men who have crossed his mind) is a distraction he doesn't need right now. "What the hell are you doing here anyway, Volkov? I thought you said you didn't speak with him much."

"Please, just Castiel. The Volkov's are my parents."

"All right, _Castiel_, what are you doing here?"

Another smile perks up the corners of the darker haired man's cheeks and he looks down. Dean swears it's done in a shy manner, but that could just be wishful thinking on his part. "I like the way you pronounce my name. You add a bit of your Brooklyn accent to it," he says, eyes flicking back up to Dean. "But it's true; I don't really speak with him. I'm here to give Jimmy back something I borrowed not long ago."

"What? Really?"

"We may not be on good terms, but he's still a very nice person. He can't help it."

Castiel shrugs and Dean mimics the gesture. "Not intending to sound like a rude prick, but what does a son of the Volkov's need from a middle-class average Joe?" He keeps his eyes focused on the other man, receiving a little head tilt and squint of the eyes in return.

"You think because my parents are rich that I am therefore rich?"

"Isn't that usually how it works?"

Castiel's laughing again and Dean mentally claims a personal victory for making a guy who barely shows any emotion according to what they've read laugh so many times, even if it's only brief and somewhat dry. He decides he likes Castiel best when he's smiling or laughing.

"Well, detective, I'll have you know I'm not. I have an average job and live in an average apartment with average furniture, an average cat named Hael, and average possessions. And I am _proud_ of my average life," he adds.

"Do you have average neighbors?" Dean asks mockingly.

Castiel gives him a narrow-eyed look coupled with a smirk before leaning back against the swing. "You enjoy joking around?"

"It gets me by," he responds, turning his head and eyes to watch a couple of children playing with a ball two houses down. "When you have my job, you can't be Batman all of the time. Sometimes you gotta be just Bruce Wayne."

The man murmurs something in another language that goes straight to the pit of Dean's stomach and he feels his face burn ever so lightly, his pulse pacing just a tiny bit faster. It's obvious that Castiel notices immediately, eyes catching onto Dean's reaction with the curiosity of a cat.

"So someone likes Russian, hmm?"

"Shit, man. That Russian chick in the second Bond movie always had me weak at the knees." Dean shifts to cross his arms, doing his best to regain composure. "You fluent? What the hell did you even say?"

Castiel's eyes drag slowly down Dean's face and throat before settling back up on his face. "Yes, my parents taught me at a very young age while I was also learning English." He purses his lips a little, staring directly into Dean's dirty green eyes—which he will totally not admit kind of went straight to his stomach in a pool of nervous heat. The other man continues speaking after a moment, though his translation is said with a thick Russian accent that doesn't help Dean's resolve to be unaffected by it. "And I said, 'You certainly look the part of the handsome billionaire.'"

"Dude, seriously? That accent?" He instead decides to pretend he's annoyed, which Dean knows is a complete and utter lie, but he doesn't care. Better to give off a false emotion than admit to a stranger, a _male_ stranger, his bilingual capabilities and forced accent are beyond sexy.

"My parents have incredibly thick ones and growing up I inevitably picked it up from them."

"Shit, that was _real_?" Dean feels something tight clench in his chest. When he realizes it's not an unpleasant feeling, he looks away and watches the kids again as a meaningful distraction.

"Hmm, yes and no." Castiel's vision focuses in on the kids as well, tapping his fingers on the book still lying in his lap. "The more I went to school and was surrounded by other American kids, and the less time I spent with my parents, the more my accent shifted into the more-typical mixed American one I have now. Time and again, when I'm around my parents a lot for particularly the holidays, it comes back out though. Weird, I know."

"Nah, not weird at all. Some people's accents dramatically adjust to those around them, others' only subtly if at all. Sammy's said as much. The guy studies a lot of random things. Too smart for his own good." Dean shrugs and glances back to Castiel, briefly catching the smile that was across his lips. "So why Hael?"

"Hmm?"

"Your cat. Why'd you name it Hael?"

"Oh." Castiel laughs and there's a certain softness to his eyes that continues to grow each time they talk; Dean can't help noticing it every time they exchange looks. Fondness? Comfort? Whatever be the case, Dean is intrigued by it. "When she was a kitten, her stoic nature reminded me of a girl I used to date, at least, before she tried to kidnap me. That was her name."

A loud snort echoes into the air and Dean realizes it came from him. "Oh, well, that's _lovely_," he says, sarcasm coating his words.

"To her credit, she wasn't always that way. She was suffering from PTSD and having delusions later in our relationship from a traumatic situation she went through. She mistook me as an all-powerful vessel for an angel that she wanted for herself." Ah, yes. Castiel. Didn't he say that was some angel's name?

"Dude, that's wacky. Damn. What kind of people do you date?"

The children's laughter bombards their ears as they roll by on scooters and they both watch them ride off before their eyes cross paths again, and then Castiel lifts a pen from his pocket to press to his lower lip. "The kind who catch my interest. Now if you excuse me, I'm going to write Jimmy a note that I was here and give his neighbor the item I borrowed for safe-keeping until he's back. I think I've spent enough time waiting for him to come around."

"Old-fashioned, hmm? I can respect that." And Dean is watching the way the other man gently nibbles on the push down trigger of the pen, eyes drifting from Dean to the porch. He presses down to click the pen out, slipping a pad of paper from a small backpack propped against a leg of the bench.

"As I can respect a cop who appreciates the Russian language."

Dean can't believe how much he's enjoying each conversation he has with this guy, and he's beginning to desire running into him at random like this more often. Of course, leaving it to chance is plain stupidity with a city the size of Brooklyn. But Dean, ever the macho man, is far too afraid of coming off like he's flirting or, Heaven forbid, asking this fairly attractive Russian-American _man_ out on some ridiculous _date_. He instead turns to leave, but peers over his shoulder one last time, unable to resist his teasing nature.

"Oh, and Cas?" The other man looks up from his note. "My educated cop guess is you just enjoyed swinging and reading, so you didn't actually mind 'waiting.'"

"Goodbyyye, detective. You have real work to do." Dean's smirk extends well up into his cheeks and Castiel waves at him in a shooing manner as he rips the note off from the rest of the pad of paper.

When Dean is finally seated back in his Impala, he peers into the rearview mirror and watches Castiel as he walks over to a scooter. Dean recognizes the brand almost instantly from the markings and detailing. He knows his scooters and motorcycles just as well as he knows his cars after all. A 2014 Vespa LXV 150cc model in siena ivory with a brown leather seat and little rear trunk—Dean admires that he's comfortable driving around an almost $6,000 scooter despite claiming he's not rich.

Dean watches in his mirror as Castiel dumps the books and tiny backpack into the back trunk, locks it, and then pops on his helmet, slinging his leg over the seat as he quickly checks his cellphone. He gives Dean a short wave before shoving his phone into a zippered pocket, starting the engine, and turning off onto the street, heading back towards the city.

Dean kind of wishes he'd decided to haul ass back to the city as well, but instead he finds himself on the highway, driving on up to Albany like he'd told Sam he'd do. It does end up taking around three-and-a-half to four hours, but Dean couldn't care any less with his classic rock blaring and the breeze from the open road whirling through his windows. It already reminds him of home early on and he feels better than ever by the time he's made it to Albany.

He's so close to Delmar he could drive on over to visit Bobby in about twenty minutes if he wanted. It creates a sort of security within him that he hasn't felt back in Brooklyn lately. He kind of wishes he made Sam come with him.

Dean pulls down around a corner, not caring much for the scenery. He's much more focused on the buildings and trying to find the exact complex that Novak's family is staying in. Garth had not only texted him the address earlier while he was on his way up, but also sent him a description of the building, so he knows exactly what to look for.

As he hits the gas at a green light, no pedestrians crossing in sight, his mind wanders back to that Castiel guy. He doesn't understand why he's on his mind so much. He doesn't understand why his stomach feels fluttery when he thinks about those daring blues, that messy, short dark brown hair, that deep gravelly voice, and the way his lips move when he utters Russian. Then there's how he _still_ doesn't understand why he feels an odd sting to his chest when he thinks about the way Castiel had looked at Sam—

He doesn't realize the loud honk of a horn is from his own car until he's slamming on the breaks and gets thrown forward, almost smacking his head off his steering wheel. Dean looks up immediately once his car has come to a complete stop. Slightly more faded blues that are identical to Castiel's other than that small fact stare back at him wide-eyed and scared. Well, maybe he doesn't have to find the apartment after all.

Dean gestures with a hand for the other man to get in his car and Jimmy Novak lowers his shoulders in defeat before walking over to the right side and getting in. Dean pulls the car off toward a small diner he used to frequent when here. When he gets out, he practically drags Novak inside and shoves him down into a bench seat.

"P-please don't make a scene, people are staring," the man says quietly.

"Don't tell me about making scenes when you bailed without notifying an officer," Dean snaps after sitting down across from him, causing Novak to shrink in his seat.

"You don't understand."

"Oh, yeah? What don't I understand? You've got five minutes."

Jimmy shifts uncomfortably and sighs. "My wife and my daughter were in danger. I didn't have police protection before the murder." He looks helplessly at Dean, who shoots him back a serious scowl. Jimmy's eyes dart down to look at the table, hands coming up onto it, fingers nervously shuffling together. "I'm not actually staying up here, honest. I came to check on them, but found out they're visiting Amelia's relatives in Vermont to help give some normalcy for Claire," he explains.

"Your family is under our protection too, you know. You should've informed us of the arrangements you made when the other officers first interviewed you." A part of Dean is sympathetic; there are things he'd do to protect Sam and Bobby that he wouldn't even think twice about. On the other hand, he knows personally how dangerous these kinds of cases are and is more than a little pissed off.

"I know and I'm sorry." Jimmy can't look at him, eyes focusing mostly on the table and his own hands. Dean figures this is the perfect opportunity.

"You do realize you could be deemed a fugitive if I decide to report this, right?" Novak swallows, _hard_. He wraps the fingers of one hand around the fist of the other, silent, and brings both hands up to his lips. "And," Dean carries on, "your wife and daughter too."

Jimmy's eyes widen as they did when Dean almost hit him on the road and he lets out startled gasp. "No, please. Please don't. Not Claire. She's just a little girl. And Amelia, Claire needs her mother."

"All right. Then I suppose you'll cooperate." The other man nods slowly and looks back down at the table. Dean has him right where he wants him and he smirks very briefly. It's time to go in for the kill. "You know, Novak. I get it. New York's expensive, especially Long Island. Sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures."

Novak simply glances to the side, silent. Dean leans over the table a bit, prying further. "And sometimes people do stupid, dangerous things with bad, dangerous people in those desperate times to result in those desperate measures."

"I'm sorry, Detective Winchester; I don't feel comfortable talking about this in the middle of a diner in Albany. Could we discuss this further at the station back in Brighton Beach? I promise I'm returning. I-I could even ride back with you, if you'd like." Dean is taken aback by the sudden request as Jimmy wearily lifts his eyes to meet Dean's, and Dean leans back against the bench, mouth open a tad in a disbelieving half-smile and brows furrowed.

It truly is like day and night, Dean thinks, as his mind is drenched in thoughts of Castiel again. While Jimmy is caught up in the middle of a murder investigation, the potential target for a mafia hit, and looks frightened and desperate, Castiel has been calm and friendly, seemingly avoiding trouble as much as possible based on their first conversation. Dean wonders about what Novak's typical saintly and quiet personality based on neighbors' remarks is like because he's already getting to know Castiel's.

"Fair enough. But I swear to God, Novak, if you try to screw—" Dean is interrupted by Jimmy's frantic chant of "No's."

"No, no, no, no, no, I swear. I would never. I only care about Claire and Amelia's safety. Putting myself in the line of danger by returning isn't something I'm against."

Dean rubs the back of his neck. He looks over at Novak with his head half-tilted to one side. "Look, I get it. It's scary. We're working on it. You come back today and we'll have a cruiser follow you around. Then after that we'll talk witness protection, which is in progress right now. I promise we won't let anything happen to you or your family." Dean reaches an arm across the table to pat the other man's shoulder reassuringly. He gets a hesitant smile in return then gets up to head back to his car.

He takes a peak at his phone the moment his car door is shut and Dean finds at least three text messages, all from Sam. He remembers their conversation during his ride up here. Sam was saying how he had absolutely no luck with Garth or anyone else's leads, something that didn't surprise Dean in the least, but Sam kept hope that maybe it was more to do with bad timing and luck than any lead being false or hopeless.

Now Sam is saying he's found out something important and needs to speak with Dean over the phone. He quickly texts Sam in response, saying he'll be back in Brooklyn likely tomorrow morning because he's still got some things to do while here. He sends another that says he'll text Sam later to give him the okay for a call. Dean then browses through his contacts and hits the call button near Bobby's name without hesitation.

After only two rings, he hears, "Yeah?"

"Bobby, hey." Dean notices static on the other end, but doesn't ask what it is exactly. "This a bad time?"

Bobby gives a short laugh, a grin appearing in his voice. "It's always a bad time with you boys. What's up?"

"I'm up in Albany right now. Just had a talk with Novak and—" Dean leans in his seat to peer out at the other man as he seems to head back over to his car. The street lights are turning on and lighting up his features dimly as the sun sets. "I'm thinking I may stop by for a visit. That okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be, y'idjit? There something you're not telling me? Dean?"

Dean is silent for some moments when Jimmy walks up to his door and taps on the window gently. He presses the down button and quirks a brow. "Hold on a sec, Bobby. Can I help you?"

"I don't want you to think I'm intending to run off. I'll come back with you, if that's okay. I left the car with the girls anyway." Novak's expression is serious and Dean rolls his eyes. Okay, he kind of opened himself up to this by not refusing back in the diner.

"All right. Get in," he says, gesturing a thumb to the passenger front seat. Bobby seems to hear the side conversation because he groans on the other end and murmurs some things to himself.

"Okay. Sorry about that." Dean's eyes dart to the right as Jimmy gets in, quiet albeit looking a little nervous. "So that's what I wasn't telling you. Novak's riding with me and is coming along, I guess." As he says the last words, he gives Jimmy a dirty look and the other man shrinks into his seat, seatbelt clicking into place.

Bobby can't help laughing it seems, because he has a good chuckle before even responding. "Well, even the best cops have sloppy moments," Bobby retorts with a humor in his voice still. "Look, Dean, you know we can't talk much about this in front of him, but my offer is still on the table."

Jimmy intentionally stares off out the passenger window and Dean is grateful he's not being incredibly nosy. "Yeah, uh, I've got something you can help me with, actually. Sam and I have reached a sort of roadblock with this. Can you look up if Roger ever paid back Ellen for that month she helped him with rent? Cause you know how she goes right after people if they don't and I wouldn't want Roger facing her wrath."

Bobby gets the hint, because the three of them—he, Sam, and Dean—have established this sort of coded talk by now in order to avoid tipping off people around them about their cases, particularly dangerous ones. He immediately turns in his chair judging by the screech on the other end and he's scribbling something down for some seconds before speaking up again. "All right, I made a note to look into it. I'll make some calls to some old contacts in Brooklyn later as well. Front door will be unlocked when you get here. Just shout out so I know it's you and come right in. See you, boy."

"Yeah. Thanks, Bobby. See you soon." Dean hangs up with a swift motion and sets his phone down on his dashboard. "All right." He clears his throat, looking right towards Jimmy, and raises his voice. "I said, _all right_."

Jimmy flinches. "A-are you talking to me?" he asks, turning to look back at Dean.

"Mhm, sure am. So the ground rules of riding in my car that I forgot to tell you before." Dean turns the vehicle on, reaching for the control panel. He switches on his favorite classic rock station and keeps the volume initially low. "Do not touch anything in my car other than the door, seatbelt, and seat. Do not speak to me first unless it's regarding this case or it's something important in general. And lastly," Dean smirks and raises the volume, voice suddenly loud to overpower the tunes, "driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."

x

Had it not been for his latest phonecall from Garth, Sam would've given up hope on finding out anything new today. He was sitting in his favorite reading spot inside the Brighton Beach library branch, shifting through different case files on his tablet, when Garth frantically informs him that he'd overheard Amelia Novak telling a relative they had absolutely no way to pay back the Volkov's and so leaving for protection was their only option.

Sam sits there after the call, contemplating whether or not to inform Dean immediately. He knows he told Dean not long ago about his lack of luck thus far during his older brother's trip up to Albany, but this? This is what he'd been looking for. He's about to give in to his urge to call when he's distracted by a somewhat familiar voice.

The younger Winchester whips his head to find Novak's twin speaking to a woman, likely a library patron, and he's undoubtedly looking very different from the last time Sam saw him today. In fact, being that the two are only a few feet away, Sam can't help observing _just_ how different this man looks.

His outfit is sharp and neat, consisting of a blood red dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black dress pants, a halter-top matching black vest that's double-breasted, and black oxfords. There's an expensive-looking watch on one of his wrists and the only things amiss about his neater ensemble would be the several buttons left undone on his shirt and his dark brown hair, still a wild mess.

"Yes, so if you need anything else, please let me know. I'll be at the service desk right over there." Castiel smiles reassuringly at the woman he'd been speaking to, an older lady in maybe her sixties, and she smiles back before walking off.

Just as Castiel is about to turn and head back to the desk, Sam makes a sudden move. He snatches his arm by the upper part without warning. "Wait, hold up a sec. You're Castiel, right? Did I say that correctly?" The other man's eyes catch Sam's and they go from surprise, perhaps even a bit of what Sam would call fear, to a softer, more lax emotion. He hadn't expected someone as laid back as this guy seemed to be so on edge.

"Ah, _Высокий мужчина_." Castiel's words brush past Sam's ears much like the sweet sounds of a gentle rain. As it registers in his mind as likely Russian or some other Slovak language, he lets go of the other man's arm just as abruptly as he'd grabbed it. "Hello."

Sam clears his throat, half-startled by the way the words affect him, and gives a quick polite smile. "Hi. Uh, was that Russian?"

"Yes, very good. I said, 'the tall man.' I remember when you came to get your brother from his absent-minded chatting with me earlier." Blue eyes drift from Sam toward a few people browsing the nonfiction. "Also, yes. You say my name perfectly."

_Funny_. Sam doesn't remember having a strange Russian fetish like his older brother. And yet, the way Castiel uttered those couple of words caused a small tingle in the very pit of his stomach. He doesn't bother questioning it further though since it's likely a random incident, much like the small crushes he's had on other boys over the years, particularly growing up, that never turned into anything more than friendship. The feelings didn't last long enough to pursue after all.

"Sam, is it?" Castiel speaks up once more when he notices the detective spacing out.

"Uh, yeah. Don't ever listen to Dean if he calls me 'Sammy.' I hate that."

Castiel chuckles briefly, glancing around the library before his gaze settles back onto Sam. "Is your brother not here with you?"

A single nod is enough, Sam figures, but he's got time and since he's ran into a lot of dead ends today except for Garth's phonecall, he might as well try another option. "Yeah, he's looking into something elsewhere. Hey, do you have some time to spare? I don't want to drag you into all of this, but we could use all of the help we can get."

"Oh." Castiel looks toward the front desk, nervously, his demeanor quickly changing back into one more like before. "Well, I'm on the clock, so I'm not even really supposed to be chatting with you about nonsense right now. But, um, you could inform my manager that it's police business. It might be okay then."

"On the clock?" Sam quirks a brow and gives Castiel a once-over again. The moment it clicks in his head, he laughs and slaps his forehead. How could he have not put two-and-two together before? "Oh my God, you're a librarian!"

A small smile perks up the corners of the shorter man's cheeks. "Well, gee. Don't act so jealous."

It doesn't take long for Sam to realize how rude he's being and he quickly halts his amusement. "Oh, no, sorry. I don't mean to mock you or anything. I just, wow, I feel stupid. You're dressed all classy and you were talking to that woman about where to find something. I guess I just didn't think librarians really did wear dress clothes."

"Well, some do, some don't. My employers feel this type of dress best embodies the professionalism of a workplace." He pauses then shakes his head. "Though it's mostly because they claim people like myself attract other people here, so this type of dress helps."

"So they're essentially using you." Sam concludes with a half-laugh.

Castiel shrugs. "They pay my bills, so they can use me all they like, so long as it's nothing violating. I'm good at my job and enjoy it; I don't entirely mind being 'eye candy' as well."

Sam gives a gesture with his hand—just a minute—as he disappears over to the front desk suddenly, pad of paper slipped from his pocket and pen in hand. He speedily writes up a note for the other employees and their bosses, telling them to call him if they have any issue with him "borrowing" Castiel for a little while. The two women behind the desk swoon like doves at his very presence. He's used to this kind of reaction by now, as much as he hates to admit.

By the time he's back Castiel looks bewildered. "Okay, sorry about that. Permission granted. Now let's have a more serious chat."

"Oh. You took me seriously," the shorter man remarks, eyes flicking down to the floor. If he's feeling disappointed, upset, nervous, or any combination of the three, Sam doesn't know. But with the way things are, he _does_ know better than to pass on an opportunity like this.

"Well, I kind of really do need you right now. I found out something interesting regarding our big case and your answers to certain questions could be extremely helpful." Sam rests a hand on his shoulder, doing his best to give off his typical comforting demeanor, though he's completely aware being interviewed by cops is usually always pretty stressful regardless of the situation.

Castiel open his mouth for a moment as if to speak, but no words come out at first and he instead sighs. "If that's what you need, detective, then I'm more than willing to cooperate." His words don't sound entirely sincere, but it doesn't bother Sam in the least.

"All right. Shall we?" He leads Castiel back to the room the Winchesters typically reserve, lets him go in first, then closes and locks the door behind them. The day is quickly passing by and Sam doesn't want to waste any more time. "So."

Castiel eyes the tablet Sam's folding open onto the table, its case propping it up towards a seat, and so Castiel takes that as a sign he's supposed to sit on the opposite side. "Comfy?" Sam asks once they've both settled down.

"As much as one can be in the presence of someone so hands—" It's like he's cutting himself off before he says something too, well, flirtatious, and Sam can't help thinking back to what Dean had been teasing him about before. "—w-well, intimidating."

"You think I'm intimidating?" Sam's eyebrow launches up his forehead.

"You're probably the tallest man I've seen lately."

"You work in a public library. I kind of doubt that."

Castiel glances off to the side this time. "Well, you are. We mostly get little old ladies, their husbands, high school and college students, and the occasional business-oriented types on lunch break."

"Oh. I see. Anyway," Sam decides changing the topic and getting focused is for the best as he slides a finger across his tablet to unlock it, "let's get to the questions."

Castiel leans his arms onto the table, fingers tangling together, and his eyes dart between Sam and the tabletop. There's a certain quality to Castiel's voice that is quickly getting engraved into Sam's mind, and he wonders momentarily if it's the same for Dean each time he runs into him.

"So, your parents. They're the Volkov's, yes? The philanthropist couple that fixes up Brooklyn and holds charity events all of the time?" Sam does his best to sound friendly despite where this is all leading.

"Yes," Castiel answers very quietly. Perhaps he can tell what Sam is getting at? Either way, he keeps his eyes on the table at this point, lips pinched into a tight frown whenever he's not speaking.

Sam flips through some open files on his tablet. If he's going to be smart about this and actually get the information he's looking for, he shouldn't _push_ for it. He's never been one to think Dean's often more brutal tactics are appropriate for every situation. Then again, he's not exactly against them when absolutely necessary, but in this case—

"How about your extended family?" Castiel's eyes immediately flick up to meet Sam's, tension brewing in those sapphire blues. "Are you or your parents close with them?"

"Absolutely not," Castiel answers without hesitation. "There are many reasons, but most of all it's their line of 'business' that I'm sure you're familiar with. My parents were never involved in it and refused to ever join. I followed in their footsteps when it comes to that."

Sam smiles. "Okay, I believe you. No worries either, I'm not accusing. Just curious."

Castiel sighs with heaviness to his expression, one hand coming up to rub over his face. It's at times like these Sam realizes he brings up certain bad memories unintentionally during interviews. Apologetically, he reaches a hand across the table to pat Castiel's arm, who looks at him through fingers spread across and draped over one eye.

"So this has to do with Jimmy." The words come out as a clear and straightforward statement, not a question.

"It's a possibility. I'm not at authority to confirm anything with you however." Sam recalls all of the times he's had to say that to people who only want to know for the sake of other people's safety and/or their own, and a certain pang of guilt always burdens him. "I will say you have to be careful. I know the Volkov's adopted you, but Novak's still your biological twin and these are dangerous people who'll do anything to get what they want."

"You don't have to tell me that." The words are a murmured annoyance. Whether the emotion is directed at Sam or Castiel's relatives isn't clear.

Sam leans back into his seat, arms crossing as if by reflex, and he makes a little popping noise with his lips. This seems to catch Castiel's attention again because he's suddenly staring right at Sam, leaning forward against the table with his arms tucked against his chest. "Can you really not tell me any more than that?"

Maybe it's the goddamn _puppy_ eyes he's getting that _he_ usually directs at other people, but Sam feels that typical pang of guilt explode. He bites his lower lip and glances at the ceiling before looking Castiel in the eyes. "I'm sorry. Not exactly my favorite part of the job to leave people hanging," he says, helplessly shrugging.

"I see." Castiel doesn't sound convinced, which makes Sam want to tell him at least _something_ else that would ease even some of the burden of uncertainty—but he knows he can't. He can't and it really freaking sucks. "Is that all you needed from me, detective?"

When Sam thinks about it, there aren't really any other questions coming to mind after all, at least, none that would fall in the realm of necessary and helpful. "I suppose it is."

"Then if you excuse me, I have to get back to work." Castiel practically knocks the chair over as he stands, not bothering, _wanting_, to say more than that. He flicks the lock open, twists the knob, and then exits the room with a swift slam of the door behind him. It's harsh and speaks volumes about how uncomfortable the topic makes the librarian—or maybe even how upsetting it is that Sam only wanted his company for two simple questions involving a case Castiel isn't even a part of.

When he thinks about it, Sam wonders if Castiel feels their original conversation was deceptive, that he was using him purely for those answers. But Sam _did_ sincerely enjoy their little chat, however short it was. And while he _did_ want answers, that hadn't been his ulterior motive when he'd grabbed Castiel's arm. In fact, he isn't even sure why he did that; he hadn't thought of asking Castiel those questions until _after_.

Sam decides it's best to stay where he is and enters in the answers he was given. He doesn't want to make Castiel feel worse than he already does; there is a reason after all, people say Dean is the tough guy and Sam the empath. Sam sighs and contemplates contacting Dean like before. Dammit, now his guilt is haunting him. He almost misses Castiel's little flirting.

Castiel, on the other hand, storms across the library with a fury his coworkers aren't used to seeing. It's a silent anger that shows in his expression and movements, so not even one of them attempts to ask how it went or if Sam's going to be sticking around. That's saying a lot because the females of the library particularly swoon over the long-haired Winchester.

The man makes his way to a cart of books needing re-shelving and decides the therapeutic effect organizing and putting things away has on him is best for his bad mood right now. He shoves the cart along until he's reached the first section, and then begins reading the code on the side of each book.

While he's in the middle of placing the fifth book back on a shelf, fingers wrap around his upper arm and he almost snaps at who he believes to be Sam once more. He isn't interested in being _used_ for more questions involving a case he wants no part of that he won't even be told the simple details of. This hand, however, is a tad too small to be the detective's he realizes after he turns to look.

"_Wooow_, look at that _face_! Someone's got the baby bird ready for a tantrum!"

Castiel practically growls at the grin being directed up at him by a man shorter than him. "_Gabriel_," he grounds out, turning to focus his attention back on the books, "how many times have I told you not to bother me while I'm at work?"

"Hmm, gosh, I've lost track. But hey, come on, can't you make time for your big bro?"

Castiel straightens his spine and takes a deep breath, eyes closing momentarily. It's his typical ritual he has to do in order to get himself calm enough to speak to anyone when he's in a really bad mood and hasn't had the chance to feel better. It's _especially_ necessary when dealing with someone like Gabriel.

"Is there something you need?" he finally asks, turning to the older Volkov.

Gabriel grins like before, his prior pouty look having gone ignored. "Yep. Good news, baby bird, Luke's back in town." Castiel immediately, and noticeably, tenses. "And he wants to talk especially with you."

"When? And why?" He's trying his damnedest not to show how uncomfortable that name makes him, but Castiel realizes it's an extremely difficult task to do given their history.

"Here and because I'm requesting your presence at a very special event I'm hosting." His eldest brother's voice sends a chill straight down his spine and Castiel puts on his best calm front. "Don't look so excited to see me, baby bird."

"I really wish you'd both stop calling me that."

"But you're the _baby_ of the family," Gabriel leans in to hook an arm up around Castiel's shoulder playfully, "and you tilt your head all birdlike to this day. Say, do all your coworkers still make fun of you for that?"

"Shut up, Gabriel, _please_."

Castiel feels like he's being attacked on all fronts today. First, he runs into that Dean Winchester, who is so incredibly _hot_, but is so smug that Castiel refuses to admit he's had this schoolgirl crush on him since he first saw him on TV. Then he runs right into Dean's brother Sam, who is equally as attractive and has these sweet, empathetic eyes that go straight through him—but no, screw him right now, he's still mad about what he did.

And now, as if things couldn't get any worse, Gabriel shows up, whom, _typically_, he can deal with—though not without needing a pain killer for the massive migraine that usually follows one of his visits. Oh, but that's not the icing on the cake. Luke's here and Castiel still has the scars from the last time he'd gone to one of his eldest brother's events. It had turned into a rain of gunfire and blood very quickly. He's still burdened with waking up at three-in-the-morning sometimes, tears in his eyes and unable to stop his body from shaking until at an hour later.

"Please, Gabriel, don't attract attention," Luke murmurs, digging around in one of his jean pockets. He then turns his attention back to Castiel, smiling sweetly. "Here, my peculiar little thing, I have a special ticket for you."

Castiel hesitantly grabs the piece of paper after a moment of his eyes darting back and forth between it and Luke. He frowns when he reads what it's for. "A gala?"

"Oh, yes. An extravagant, lovely gala with twinkling lights and classical live music, pianos and violins echoing around the ballroom. There'll be girls in beautiful gowns and men in their Sunday best. It's everything you adore, you'll love it. What do you say?"

"But what is it for?" Castiel is more than concerned, never liking it when Luke shows up after months to announce he wants to _celebrate_ something. More successful sales and manufacturing of drugs? Another dozen hits on innocent people who simply couldn't pay up their owed debt? Another takeover of some other underground group's territory?

Gabriel laughs. "Why do you look so worried, Cassie? It's for your _birthday_!"

Castiel's expression shifts to bewilderment for a while until he realizes that August 20th is less than three weeks away. But a gala? Castiel has never been fond of large celebrations for his birthday; Luke _and_ Gabriel both know this. So why the sudden party?

"But why? You're both aware I dislike being the center of attention. And besides, I've plans for my birthday. A-and last time I went to an event of yours, Luke, I—" His eyes wander to the floor, unable to finish the sentence or risk the horrible memories taking over.

Luke frowns and places a hand on Castiel's face to reassuringly stroke his younger sibling's cheek with a thumb. "You will be protected, I promise. No one's going to lay a finger on my pretty little brother." Castiel's eyes drift to exchange a hard glance with Luke, who's keeping his own eyes soft. Castiel always finds it irritable that he can rarely read his true emotions due to his ability to hide them so well.

"I want to make it up to you, what happened at the last event," Luke continues. "Not to worry, it won't be on your actual birthday either. Which reminds me." He smiles and his hand slips to Castiel's shoulder. "I can introduce you to several lovely ladies while there."

Castiel steps back, pulling away from his hand. "No, thank you. I'm content being single." Which is _true_, however, he's also afraid of the backlash he'll get if Luke finds out he's crushing on two _detectives_ of all people. Last time he liked a cop and admitted to it, Luke almost crashed his car into a utility pole.

"Suit yourself!" Gabriel chimes in again. "Luke's got all these beautiful babes he's met recently. Ah, they're like fine works of art, I'm tellin' ya!"

"And I'm telling _you_, I'm not interested," Castiel retorts, giving Gabriel a dirty look that's met with an even bigger smirk and eyebrow waggling.

"Fine, fine! But definitely come!" Gabriel flashes his own ticket to Castiel, waving it in front of his face. "Everyone's going to be there, our friends and whole family, including Anna, Mom, and Dad!"

As much as Castiel adores his older sister and parents, he isn't exactly fond of how there'll be his extended family and brothers' friends present. He greatly dislikes most of his cousins, aunts, and uncles, and the thought of Gabriel bed-hopping and chatting Castiel's ear off and Luke showing him off to his friends like he's a fine China doll not his younger brother only gives Castiel a headache.

Unfortunately, as much as he wants to outright reject the offer, he decides playing it safe is the best option. "I'll think about it."

"Good, good." Luke is smiling once more and he pulls Castiel in to hug him briefly before stepping away. "Now I'll leave you to your work. Take care, my peculiar little thing."

Castiel doesn't even feel the least bit relieved until Luke has walked out of view. Gabriel is still right by his side however, and it causes irritation to sneak up in his blood again. He starts to re-shelve the books once more, ignoring the obnoxious way Gabriel's watching his every move. "Why are you still here? I got called into work late on a day off because two people left sick. I have a lot to do before closing."

"Aww, don't be so mean, Cassie! I'm just wondering when you're going to quit this ridiculous, boring job and come work for me!"

"Gabriel, we've been over this so, _so_ many times. I enjoy working here. It's not boring."

A pout replaces the expression previously on his older brother's face. "But you'd be such a pretty model. The girls, and guys, would love you. I mean, just look at those dark blues!" He grips Castiel's chin and forces him to turn his way. "So beautiful. I wish these ran in the blood of our family. Luke's got Mum's eyes, the faded baby blues, and Anna and I got Dad's."

"If you don't let go of my face in the next ten seconds, I will not hesitate to pummel you with books." Castiel's threat doesn't go unheard and Gabriel releases his face with another pout. "I really wish you'd both stop treating me like I'm an object," Castiel adds as he turns back to his work.

Gabriel shrugs. "I'm sorry you feel that way, we just really admire your good looks is all. _I_ wish you'd cash in on them before you're all old and wrinkly."

Castiel rolls his eyes. "The library is closing to the public soon, _big bro_. Find your way out."

Having finished with this particular section, he pushes the cart off. He can hear Gabriel's annoying laughter fade into the distance as he makes his way over to the Teen section. While on his way, he passes by the room he'd spoken to Sam in, and notices the detective is no longer there. Whatever. It's not like he cares too much. To hell with those attractive Winchester boys—he's got bigger problems to worry about now.


	3. Troublemaker

A/N: I'm so sorry about the sudden hiatus. I put both my fics aside so I could focus on other things for a while. As mentioned within Ah! My Angel's notes, I was intending to get this chapter up before this past Monday. Unfortunately, writer's block hit me hard and I couldn't manage to stay focused enough to write. Humble apologies.

From now on, if you want news, updates, notes, and so on about my stories, you can check my fanworks Tumblr ShallowShadows. I hope this will help keep those curious informed regarding any late chapters, disappearances, and so on.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, nor any of the characters from it. I don't make money off of this story.

**Updates every two weeks on Mondays. I'm not sure of the chapter count because I always write more than I expect to from my outlines.**

* * *

**Apparitions and Their Untimely Returns  
_Chapter 3 Troublemaker_**

* * *

"We're not going to say it again, if you know anything, you'd better tell us now. Last chance," Dean says, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and chin held high. He loves it when his intimidation tactics work. They've resulted in driving out some of the best clues and information he's ever gotten during cases.

Except, well, this isn't one of those times.

"I honestly don't know anything," the man is uttering, voice low and quiet. "I didn't even know they were related." He doesn't seem like he's lying, seem being the key word there. They've met plenty of good liars before.

Dean gives his best poker face and leans forward. "Ever hear of what they did to people that lied in certain countries long ago? They'd cut your tongue out—"

Sam sighs and smacks Dean across the back of the head, though it's more a gentle annoyed tap than an injury-inducing one. Still, Dean exaggerates an "Ow" and shoots Sam a dirty look. Moot point on his part, however, being that Sam doesn't even glance at him.

"I'm really sorry about him. You see, Dean here gets a little over-excited when it comes to questioning and doesn't know when to quit. Kind of like a dog when it gets to play fetch." Low blow, Sam. Low blow.

The man they've been questioning for the past half hour simply shrugs. "Uh, it's fine, I guess, but I really don't know anything, detectives."

"Sure you don't, you little—"

"All right, we'll be on our way then," Sam interjects before Dean can finish his attempt at an insult. "Here's our card. Contact us if you think of anything. Even small things or something stupid can be helpful. You never know."

The man nods, hesitantly taking the card. He steps backward into his apartment and completely ignores Dean while giving Sam a tip of the chin and small wave. A click of the door later and the two cops are left alone.

On their way out of the building, Dean is complaining about how badly that went with a slowly-losing-patience Sam tagging along, his blood-pressure quickly rising. Of _course_ it went bad. Why wouldn't it have with the way it was handled?

They've done this so many times that Sam can't even keep count anymore. Dean gets carried away during questioning, Sam has to apologize, and then they leave empty-handed with a peeved-off person who isn't likely to contact them even in the event of gaining or remembering information. It's a bad habit Dean simply can't ditch and Sam loathes it.

"Sammy, how come everyone always loves you?"

The miraculous silence that was blissfully filling the air after they'd gotten into Dean's car is quickly trashed. Well, that was a nice five minutes, at least.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Because I'm polite, like we should be. You don't just go 'bad cop' on everyone, Dean. You _know_ that."

The mocking tone and voice Dean repeats Sam's words in earns him a glare as harsh as an Albany thunderstorm in July. Dean simply turns up the music with a smirk and Sam turns away with a small grumble.

"So it's been a week," Dean finally says after singing along to "Wanted Dead or Alive" for the third time today.

"So it has," Sam responds, elbow leaning against the door and fist pressing into a cheek. He's got that sourpuss look Dean can see out of the corner of his eye which doesn't in the least surprise him.

That's usually Sam's "Leave me alone" face Dean has grown so "fond" of. It's often a result of Dean's constant teasing, so he can't blame Sam for it. After all, Dean would get annoyed himself if the shoe were on the other foot. But this? This is kind of an important conversation, so it's time to buckle down and cease his temptation to crack some jokes.

Dean keeps his eyes on the road—because hey, you can never trust New York drivers—but does reach a hand over to turn down the music. He knows his car so well by now he can find most controls with his eyes elsewhere. Perhaps that's one benefit of being in his "baby" so much for work and otherwise.

"A week and no new leads, Sammy. We've been pretty hardcore about all of this too. All-nighters and Starbucks runs."

Sam's gaze remains focused outside of the window, but he does let loose a frustrated sigh. "So what can we do? We've got other smaller cases we've been working on. Why not just throw in the towel?"

"You're telling me you're suddenly the type who just 'gives up'?"

"Okay, you got me there." The eyebrow Dean raises is met with a smirk reflected in the passenger door window. "What next then?"

That's probably the biggest problem—Dean has no idea. They've run into dead ends before during cases, but those are usually solved when a lead pops up conveniently. Mafia cases, on the other hand, aren't usually so eager to be solved.

Dean bites his bottom lip. "No clue. But I'm craving the stereotypical cop favorite drink of choice and some power food right about now. Want anything?"

When Dean pulls the Impala towards a McDonald's, Sam can't help the over-exaggerated eye roll he makes. While he isn't by any means a vegetarian—he does eat home-cooked burgers here and there—he loathes what many people consider a quick drive-through lunch. Mystery faux meats aren't exactly appetizers in Sam's mind.

"Dude, no, thank you. Do you even know what's in that stuff?"

"Don't know, don't care. Tastes good and that's all I care about."

"And that is exactly why I worry someday you're going to die by femme fatale laced wine."

Dean laughs which makes Sam shake his head. Perhaps though, their poor luck is taking a turn for the better when Dean's obnoxious ringtone fills the air.

"Yeah, hey, Bobby? You're on speaker. We're in the car."

"Boys," Bobby starts, voice a hush, "I've got something really, really interesting you'll want to know about your big case."

Their attention is instantly locked-in. When Bobby's voice is quiet and focused that's usually a sign he knows something he probably shouldn't. That and he's likely somewhere more public.

Dean pulls over into the parking lot while ignoring his growling stomach for the more important matters at hand. "And that is?"

"Well, Jody, our beloved former sheriff? She was actually in charge of quite a few cases involving people owing the Volkov's money."

"What? Why didn't she say anything to us back at the station?" Sam inquires, brows furrowed. They'd talked to her at least ten times this week and it was never brought up.

Bobby sighs. "That's one of the issues. She couldn't."

"What do you mean she couldn't?" Dean is quick to interject before Sam can get a word in edgewise.

Bobby doesn't respond at first, the sound of other people coming over the phone. They assume he truly is out in a more public place, so he can't help his secrecy. What Bobby is doing out there and why he decided to call them now rather than later at his place is beyond them.

When Bobby does decide it's safe to continue, the words that come through the other end of the phone send both Dean and Sam into a skeeved out state.

"She's being tailed at the station. Remember our old friend Crowley?"

Sam speaks over Dean this time. "What in the hell is that sleaze doing trailing Jody?"

"She knows things he doesn't want her knowing," Bobby answers matter-of-factly.

"Like what?" Dean dares to ask, though the look he's getting from Sam makes him realize they probably don't want to know. But hey, whatever's beneficial to their case, right?

"Jody has a hunch he's in bed with your buddies the Volkov's."

It feels like all of the air is forcefully sucked out of their lungs suddenly. It's like gravity has increased tenfold and now it's crashing all around them, and the air is too thick, lacking enough oxygen for them to properly breathe.

Crowley? That bastard Crowley is involved with the mafia? They've always known he was a corrupt cop ever since he'd gotten both Rufus and Bobby fired way back when, but mafia? They didn't think even he'd stoop so low. Perhaps they'd still foolishly held onto hope he could change given time. After all, he'd had so many resources available to him.

That's the funny thing Sam and Dean have had reinforced through-out their careers—people rarely change. It's enough to destroy even the most optimistic, faith-in-humanity-based person's entire moral certainty.

"Boys? Boys, look, I have to go. I'm in the middle of something myself. A little PI-case Rufus and Garth dragged me into. Just find Jody at the address I send you and she'll elaborate further. Good luck."

Both Winchesters scramble to tell Bobby to wait, to hold up, to not hang up the dang phone—all variations of such—but they're cut off. Well, that went well. Now they know one of their own is involved in all of this. Great! As if the trust wasn't already bad enough around the station with all of the newbies messing up constantly.

Given their new information, there's really only one thing they can do. They have to talk to Jody. If it's true she's dealt with cases involving these guys before she'll be able to help. Finally their dead end is a lead.

And while that would typically be a really awesome thing they'd be high-fiving over, their worry has increased ten-fold instead. Now they know Crowley is likely in bed with the Volkov's which raises the risk of not only this case but everyone's safety at the station. If Crowley overhears anything, even the smallest of evidence, he could get someone hurt or worse. Kevin definitely comes to mind and the Winchester's more protective side kicks in.

"All right, so lucky you, Sammy, we're skipping McD's today. Bobby just sent me Jody's address. Can't keep her waitin'—"

The snarky comment Dean is expecting in return doesn't come. Instead, his ears are graced with Sam's piano-based ringtone. Eyebrows raised, Sam picks it up and answers despite the "Unknown" with Dean already driving to Jody's whereabouts.

"Is this Sam Winchester? Did I call the right number?"

Dean recognizes that voice, its familiar scratchiness and deep tone impossible to mistake, and he snatches the phone from Sam's hand as he halts the car to a stop. Sam, taken off guard, goes forward and almost hits his head. An angry glare directs its way towards Dean who's switching the gear into park.

"Dean, what the hell? Jody, remember? Also, thanks for almost knocking me out cold, you jerk."

"Why the hell is Castiel Volkov calling you?"

The tension flooding the air is thick enough to cut with a butter knife. Sam is taken aback by the look he's receiving when his eyes meet Dean's. Shouldn't _he_ be the rightfully pissed off one given Dean's sudden slam of the breaks?

"Sam left his number at the front desk. There was a note specifying to call if my bosses had a problem with his little interview of me during my work hours."

Dean doesn't know why, but he feels this awful clenching at the pit of his gut. It's harsh and burning, much like anger but a little worse. He doesn't dare put a word on it though, not with the bewilderment forming along Sam's features.

"I did not call you, Dean, so I would appreciate it if you could take me off speaker and return Sam's phone to him."

"Why are you calling? He said your bosses could call, not you. What do you even want? A lapdance?"

Oh, boy. His open-mouth-insert-foot issue has gotten him into trouble before. But this time Dean is certain he's opened up what's more like a can of worms than small quick-fix problem.

"_Excuse _me?" Castiel's clearly pissed. Well, he sounded angry before, but now he just sounds furious.

Sam seems to be on par at the very least. His features have gone dark and he practically rips the phone out of Dean's hands. Sam makes sure to shoot him one of his "Don't even try" looks before switching the speaker off.

"I'm sorry, Cas. Dean's being weird. He hasn't eaten and he's been known to be touchier when—"

"Would you care to explain to me why I am being threatened with eviction if I do not leave my apartment willingly?"

"Wait, what?"

Castiel is definitely making attempts to keep patient. He takes a deep breath, voice shaky from emotion. "My roommate said you two came by. You told him my relatives are in the mafia. You told him my _brother_ is."

Oh, shit. Oh, holy hell in a hand basket. That slimy little roommate of Castiel's must have panicked after Dean and Sam left. That or he got spiteful because of the detectives' nagging for any hint of information he could know. Why in the world had the two not even considered Castiel getting backlash for it?

Sam switches the phone back to speaker hesitantly. He knows Dean heard that anyway in the silence of the music-less car because he's covering his lips with a clenched fist and leaning back against his seat, eyes focused on Sam.

"What would possess you two to screw me over this badly?"

Castiel's voice is quickly showing emotions beyond anger, emotions that make you want to curl up under a blanket with a box of tissues. It's effectively punching both detectives in the guts.

"You didn't mention your brother was in the mob," Dean murmurs against his fist. Pitiful excuse, but it's all he's got.

"So you make me homeless?" Castiel's exasperated voice overpowers any attempt Dean makes to continue speaking. "That was your brilliant plan of revenge?"

"Cas. _Castiel_." Sam's turn. He's the one good with this kind of thing anyway. "We didn't want you kicked out of your apartment. We weren't thinking about that. We just wanted answers."

"Well, I hope it was worth it! Screw you both and your stupid case! Yeah, I said screw you both! Come and arrest me for contempt of cop, I dare you!" The raised tone of voice is so loud it's reached the point of yelling, practically blowing out Sam's speaker.

The guy has every right to be angry. They're not even going to bother telling him to calm down. Heck, they're especially not going to do anything as drastic as arresting him for being upset. It is their fault, after all, for what happened to him.

So what do they do? What's the best game plan here? A silent exchange of looks and they're both simply letting him rant for now while they think. The insertion of random Russian is probably just out of frustration. Both Winchester's doubt he even realizes.

And perhaps that _was_ their best choice, allowing him to let it out. After a full five minutes, Castiel's tone shifts into something utterly _broken_. It sounds like he's teetering on the edge of sobbing and Sam ends up giving Dean one of those puppy-eyed expressions he's so good at.

"Where am I supposed to live now? I told you I'm distant from my relatives, even my siblings and parents, and I hardly have friends," Castiel quietly utters into the phone.

Dean bites his bottom lip. Sam sighs and leans back against his seat. They're both having this conversation with their eyes that they've grown so accustomed to. Dean shakes his head, but Sam just raises his brows and tightens the line of skin that forms his lips.

"We'll find you a new apartment," Sam finally says and Dean belts himself in the face with a hand. Classic facepalm.

"Really? It's New York," Castiel remarks, doubt coating his voice.

"You have my word. And Dean's." Sam ignores the way Dean is holding his hands in the air, palms up, fingers curled. He also ignores the gaping expression being directed his way. "Until then, you're welcome to stay with us."

Dean's jaw looks like it's about to fall off, but Sam ignores him again. This prompts an epic big bro meltdown as Dean "collapses" against his steering wheel, arms draped over it and face shoved into them.

Castiel, on the other hand, seems a little more at ease. "You're—really? Is that a promise?"

"It's a promise." Sam smiles, making sure it's obvious in his tone as well, and Dean groans like he's being put in the timeout corner.

"What was that?"

"Oh, uh, Dean's hungry, remember? We've gotta get going. But don't worry. I promise we'll take care of you. We're the ones at fault here after all."

"Mnn, okay. Your reputation at least backs you up as a man of your word. But don't think I'm letting you two off the hook so easily. You both owe me beyond this."

A chill rides up Dean's spine. What if they really can't find this guy a place he likes and he ends up becoming more than a guest? The thought of a stranger living with them, no matter how interesting Dean finds him to be, is not a comfortable one. And also, what exactly did he mean by they owe him? God, Dean hates those words when used seriously.

Sam hangs up with a sigh, but Dean groans yet again. "Why did you do that?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Uh, duh. We screwed him over, Dean. We've gotta make it right. We're cops. Y'know, the good guys?"

"Sometimes I hate being the good guys."

"Oh, shut up."

x

It takes an immense amount of patience for Castiel not to take out his frustrations on his job. He'd been re-shelving books when his roommate had sent him a text about eviction or peaceful leave and he barely managed to ask his superior calmly if he could take another call outside.

Even with Sam's offer, Castiel feels like crap. Sure, he wasn't a fan of his living arrangements anyway—his roommate could be a giant ass almost daily—but that's not the point. The point is that he hadn't the chance to look for another place yet. The _major_ point is that he hasn't paid his rent this month. His roommate _can_ throw him out legally through the court.

Rather than let things get so messy, Castiel prefers peace. Immediately after his phone call to Sam, he types up a message to his roommate that he'll be getting his stuff sometime this week. After all, he needs at least a few days to find a temporary living arrangement.

Frustration is barely the word for his feelings. Castiel's a mess of emotions and anger is certainly doing its damnedest to take over. So when a hand drapes over his shoulder, fingers one-by-one folding down onto it and clenching, he isn't surprised by his own reaction.

"What the hell do you _want_?" he snaps, whipping around to glare at whoever dares to bother him right now.

"My peculiar little bird, I am offended. I spend the time coming to see you and you yell at me? In your precious library of all places?"

Castiel takes a moment to look around, catching the eyes of library patrons. Some look surprised, some aggravated, while others, the sweet little old ladies who adore him, even appear _frightened_. His chest clenches tight at making such a disturbance.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, quietly returning to his work. "You shouldn't sneak-up on me like that."

"What's wrong, Castiel? I am rarely graced with your temper." Luke steps around so he's standing between Castiel and the bookcase, making it virtually impossible to continue his re-shelving.

A tighter frown promptly plants itself across Castiel's lips. "Nothing. Now please move, brother. I'm working." He's silently pleading for Luke to get the hint and leave, however unlikely that is.

"Hmm, have you at least considered my invitation?" The elder Volkov asks, eyes staring deep into Castiel's own.

Castiel has to look away, discomfort creeping up his spine. When Luke stares like that it always goes deep into another part of him he usually shields from the world, and every single time it leaves the younger Volkov feeling vulnerable. Something about Luke has always given him the creeps, brother or not.

But Castiel, ever the stubborn one, refuses to make this obvious. So while he's making a strong attempt to mask his discomfort, Luke's prying eyes have already unraveled the other more apparent issues.

"This doesn't happen to involve those Winchester boys, does it? Your poor mood, I mean," Luke says out of the blue and Castiel is barely able to keep himself from gasping. Damn Luke's ability to see right through him.

"I just have my hands a little full at this time," Castiel responds softly, unable to look his brother in the eyes or risk giving him the answer he's prying for.

A soft chuckle slips past Luke's lips. There's that knowing, mocking tone to it Castiel's all too familiar with, which signifies any attempt to fib will fail.

"Castiel, please. I can already tell my assumption is accurate and there's no point in tapping into your creative side to come up with some story. You're a terrible liar, little bird."

"I'm getting evicted if I don't leave my apartment peacefully. My roommate found out about our family's darker side."

It's hardly a surprise to him Luke's yet again able to get the truth out of him. Intimidation tactics Luke's perfected aren't even a necessity when he's this good at reading his other siblings, including Gabriel and Anna.

Rather than the annoyed or angry look Castiel's expecting, Luke's features seem sympathetic. "Oh." One moment he's standing, the next he's holding Castiel tightly against his own body in a warm embrace.

Castiel's more surprised at himself than the actual gesture when he melts into it, chin and cheek pressing against his brother's shoulder. Being that he's asocial by nature, he wasn't expecting to so desperately crave such affectionate support from another human being, but he _is_ and it feels so good, soothing even.

But then, this is a pattern all too familiar to Castiel. Ever since he was little, he can remember caving in when Luke took advantage of his times of vulnerability. He would be the shining light at the end of the tunnel whenever Castiel's life took a turn for the worst, always there to help him, always there to comfort him. And _damn_ was he good at comfort. Castiel always, _always_ falls for it even though he knows better by now.

There was, and always will be, a price. Always.

Unlike Anna's, and even Gabriel's, more genuine gestures, Luke's always come with a price Castiel finds himself paying up one way or another. A gala, a press conference, a date with somebody's daughter—these typically less dangerous things are the usual requests. But with his luck, there are often times where those become excessively beyond dangerous and he's left thanking his lucky stars for the heartbeat still drumming in his chest.

"Until you find new living quarters, you are free to stay in a hotel of your choosing and I will cover the bill," Luke finally says after some moments of silence.

Even with all of this in mind, Castiel caves. Anything is better than having to stay with those Winchester's. Okay, perhaps that's not true. Perhaps Castiel's just harboring a bit of a grudge. But really, who can blame him when those two detectives still have a place to sleep at night while his only options are bothering one of his few friends or accepting his brother's offer?

"I—thank you. I'll pay you back."

"Coming to the gala I planned for is the only payback I need."

Castiel can feel the smirk against his neck and he sighs. Hook, line, and sinker. "I need more time after what happened. I'll call you."

Luke pulls back with his hands lingering over Castiel's shoulders. His eyes have a soft sort of twinkle to them and the grin Castiel felt is still plastered across his features. "I'll be expecting that call, baby brother," he simply says before letting go.

x

Guilt. It's that emotion that wraps around your insides and tugs until you want to surrender. Just when you think you've mastered dealing with it, you realize you haven't and it's back to feeling like crap again.

That's exactly how the Winchester's have been feeling since their phone call with a certain Volkov. They've had other minor jobs to handle while working their big case, so they're plenty busy. However, nothing serves as a big enough distraction. They keep finding themselves with their minds wandering back to the horrible emotion tugging at their guts.

It's around three o'clock after they've spoken to Jody that Dean finally can't take it anymore.

"Sam. Hey, Sam. Have you found any places Cas might be interested in?" he calls over the table to his clearly very absorbed in the TV brother. "Sam!"

"Huh? Oh, uh, sorry."

There's a good reason Sam's mind is focused on the little LED hanging down behind the counter. Despite the café's loud chatter, the TV's programming is clear thanks to the writing scrolling across the screen.

It's a breaking news report on another underground group that met with serious blows as detectives in Philadelphia essentially handed their asses to them. Not only was a big drug smuggling operation trashed, but several of the heads are now in police custody. Several dangerous, intelligent heads that have been on the run for _years_.

"Anybody we know? Acquaintances, maybe? Head in the game, man. I do _not_ want a stranger crashing in our place, e_specially_ a guy with his connections."

"Dean, do you think it's weird what happened down in Phillie?" Sam asks, voice low and careful. "The big drug bust and several huge mafia names going down?"

The taken aback expression on Dean's face seizes Sam's line of vision when he focuses his eyes on the older Winchester. Leave it to the news to toss them a potentially interesting lead.

Dean flicks his eyes over to the TV, then back at Sam. He intentionally lowers the volume of his own voice too. "It is kind of interesting that lately cops are having an easier time taking down organized crime overall."

"Devil's advocate here, we do have better tech and training these days."

"Yeah, but what you said. It is weird." Dean snatches a napkin from the container, quickly scribbling something down onto it. "Think about it."

Sam peers down at the table as Dean turns the napkin around to be in Sam's readable view. "Luke Volkov? Castiel's brother? Why would you think it's got to do with him?"

"Remember how Cas was pissed that I told his roomie big bro Lucy is mafia?" Sam nods and Dean blows a loud gust of wind through his pursed lips. "Yeah. I was kind of being spiteful. I've been doing research on Cas' mafia relatives and I mayyy have been a liiittle ticked off upon discovering it wasn't just extended family of his in the mob."

The eyebrow on Sam's forehead couldn't go any higher. He stares at Dean silently for a moment before smacking a hand against his face and dragging it down ever so slowly. "Did you ever come to think that he's not close with his siblings either?"

"Well, I was mad. I mean, he kind of lied to us! What was I supposed to do?"

A simple deadpan is directed his way. "You could've, y'know, talked to Castiel about it first. Like I'd do. Like any mature, level-headed person might do."

"And risk being lied to again by angel-face?"

"He didn't technically lie. It was exclusion of information," Sam corrects.

"Lying by exclusion, Sammy," Dean retorts, leaning in. "Oldest trick in the book. Satan's probably got an iron grip on him. Mafia siblings can be pretty intense. You know that."

"Pretty sure Castiel wouldn't like you calling him Satan, Dean."

"Hey, I'm not the one who named him _Lucifer_."

For the first time all day, the Winchester's have found a suitable distraction from their distraction. It couldn't have come at a better time either. It's halfway through the day and now they can actually be _productive_ instead of dwelling on their guilt over Castiel's living situation.

Dean swipes through his cell phone until he's found the files he's looking for. He jabs in a password and then places the phone in front of Sam. "Ever since big baddie Volkov came into power, other crime organizations have been going down left and right. Check out the dates."

Sam scans the files quickly. The more he reads, the more his face shifts into a furrow and tight frown. "You're right. There's been a significant increase since Volkov gained further status," he comments quietly after some moments, eyeing a passerby to make sure no one overhears them.

"Am I good or what? Competition takedown. Rule number one of any business—you wipe out those who are a threat to your own business' success."

There's a two word description for when people go through what Dean's going through right now—ego trip—but Sam keeps the thought to himself. Instead, he skims over the files some more. Sure, Dean has a point, but that doesn't explain certain anomalies.

One of those anomalies being how Luke Volkov came into power so damn quickly. That alone has Sam puzzled, and he's sure Dean is the same. Before this year, all of Dean's research points to Luke being a smalltime Mafioso. So why now is he power-tripping all the way to the top of the ladder?

"Dean, did you happen to come across anything regarding his power-trip?"

Dean raises a brow. "What, how he went from bottom of the food-chain to top? No. Then again, it's underground. They're good at hiding things. Maybe someone on the inside will figure that detail out." His tone shifts to a warning. "Or, y'know, the big boys."

Right. This type of detail was how they got into so much trouble the last times. Instead of solving the small case presented before them, they ventured too far. Trying to figure out Luke Volkov's sudden power and even, dare they think, take him down, could be detrimental to their health and safety.

Sam slides Dean's phone back to him across the table. "All right, so next we find Cas and give him a head's up?"

Dean chokes on the coffee he takes a sip of. "Are you nuts?" An all-too wide-eyed look takes over the older Winchester's face. Tip Castiel off? Oh, Sam means the guy who still wants to _strangle_ them both for making him homeless? Big bad Mafioso Luke's little brother? Sure, no problem.

"Come on, Dean. He deserves to know," Sam says, giving Dean one of his tailored puppy faces.

"Wrong. Bad idea. Are you forgetting what it means to be a cop? Play it safe." Dean shoves his phone into his pocket. As he leans back into the seat, he crosses his arms. "What if he's really not as distant from Luke as he'd like us to believe? Or hell, say he's telling the truth. What if he tips Luke off about us out of spite over what we did to him? Keeping Cas out of the know as much as possible is our safest and best option. For his sake and ours."

While Sam doesn't like that answer, he can't deny Dean has a point. Perhaps he's developing a bit of a soft spot for Castiel, but Sam realizes he's being a little reckless. No point in arguing.

"So then, what now? Should we see if we can get anything else out of him? You said it yourself. Those two could be closer than we believe."

Dean bites his bottom lip. They certainly shouldn't go the blabbermouth route and tell Cas everything, they've established that. But to try to talk to him to see if they can get anything useful, and, maybe, _apologize_ in person wouldn't be such a bad idea.

That's why when they're out of the café and hitting the road to the Brighton Beach Library semi-spontaneously, neither is complaining.

Most of the car ride is spent in silence, at least regarding a conversation between the two Winchester's. Dean cranks the music and taps his fingers against the steering wheel. Sam picks up where he left off reading the files from Dean's phone. Even New York's infamous traffic isn't bothering them like it usually does.

By the time they reach the library, they've each respectively gotten into a better mood. It's odd, considering what they've discovered. And yet, neither can deny the little flicker of butterflies gracing their stomachs or the ease encasing their once weary hearts.

"Well, shit." Dean's voice is the first to speak up as he lowers the music.

Sam doesn't look at him, still flipping through the files, but he does question the reaction. "What? No parking?"

"No, there is. Just." A sharp intake of breath follows his initial words. "Dude, am I the only one feeling like it's prom night?"

This time Sam lowers the phone and turns to look at Dean with furrowed brows. "You're serious?"

"No, I'm just saying things to make you look at me like that." Dean rolls his eyes. There are times when he wishes Sam wouldn't be so, well, Sam, and this is one of them. "It's damn weird. I got all giddy on our way over here. It's not like we're going to see an old friend. Cas is a stranger and _pissed_ at us."

Sam opens his mouth to speak but chooses not to right away. He wants to deny he had a similar feeling prop-up on the way over here, wants to tell Dean he's just being ridiculous, but that'd make him a hypocrite and liar. He really, _really_ doesn't want to give Dean the satisfaction of calling him out on that.

"All right, I admit. I may be feeling a little similar."

"You bitch! You made me feel like I was going crazy for a moment there."

"Hey, I didn't want to just agree with you without thinking it over briefly. It's probably just relief over getting more leads."

"Bullshit." Dean practically rips the key out of the ignition. "You and I both know what that feels like. This is fucking hot chick one night stand giddy."

Classic bitch-face gets directed Dean's way and the older Winchester laughs. "Don't you fucking deny it. You've had man-crushes before."

"What about you and the Dr. Sexy 'nightmares,' as you called them? You didn't sound like you were having a nightmare when Charlie woke you up—"

The suit jacket that meets Sam's face is enough to switch his train of thought from harassing his older brother to grumbling in annoyance. He drags the article of clothing off his face in time to catch Dean hopping out of the car. His eyes watch the way Dean's scurrying off to avoid the conversation and Sam sighs heavily.

They can never have these conversations without Dean's discomfort with his sexuality causing him to act like a child.

But say it's true. Say they've both developed some ridiculous crush on the Volkov's youngest child. What does it matter? It's not like either of them would actually go after him. Dean's only ever had strong enough urges for women and the same goes for Sam. Their guy crushes never lasted. That wouldn't suddenly change, right?

Sam manages to catch up to Dean at the front desk, thankful the other man was courteous enough to wait for him before speaking with the women there. Sometimes Dean would jump the gun and Sam never liked that.

Maybe it's just that they've had an iffy week, but the women seem, well, angry. The two Winchester's exchange glances before Dean clears his throat.

"Hey there, ladies. We're lookin' for Cas—uh, Castiel. Castiel Volkov. He here?"

There are three of them. Two are shifting through books and tending to other patrons. The one who's not simply flicks her eyes up once to look at each man then turns away. Weird considering the last few times they squealed like fangirls.

"Let me try," Sam whispers before stepping up closer to the desk. "Excuse us. We visit here on a regular basis. We're the Winchester's, detectives Sam and Dean. We're looking to speak with Castiel Volkov. Is he working today?"

The other women don't even bother gracing the two with a glance, but the one who'd turned away twists back to them.

"He's working, like the rest of us. If you have a question in regards to finding something in the library, we'll be happy to help," the woman says with a flat tone, eyes fixed on them in a slightly narrowed way. "Otherwise, you're on your own."

With that she walks off towards a cart full of books, leaving the Winchester's with their eyebrows up and lips parted.

"That went well," Dean murmurs as they walk further into the library.

"I guess they heard about what happened with Castiel." Sam starts to head in the opposite direction of Dean, eyes weary. "You try that end. I'll focus on this one."

Well, they kind of put this on themselves, now didn't they? Castiel's co-workers may have been Winchester fangirls, but they also adored _Castiel_ apparently. He's the one who works side by side with them every day. Neither of the men can blame them for being angry.

So now their quick little trip has become a game of Marco Polo or Hide-and-Seek. Knowing Castiel, he's not likely to approach them eagerly if he notices them. Thus, both Dean and Sam are prepared to put on their annoying cop personas. They do want to at the very least apologize.

Dean figures he's swept over every last inch of his half of the library after what feels like an hour. Either Castiel doesn't want to be found or he's not around here. Maybe Sam's gotten luckier with his half.

A frustrated groan moves past Dean's lips as he slumps onto a nice leather chair, letting his body sink into the soft cushions.

"You should be quieter; there are people in need of quiet here." Holy shit. No way.

Dean looks up to find narrowed blue eyes staring down at him. There's a certain paleness to the other man's face that Dean knows is likely stress or anxiety and it doesn't help him feel any less guilty.

"Cas," he breathes, jumping back to his feet.

"Don't," the other man snaps, stepping back. "You're no longer allowed to call me that."

"Oh, come on. You can't stay mad at us forever." Dean's pissed off so many of his girlfriends and clients that he's used to playing the forgiveness card. That doesn't mean he's good at it.

"Well, I can, but I won't. Not for your benefit though. It's simply not good for _my_ health. Kind of like being homeless because of a couple of lousy detectives."

Dean sighs. All right, he totally deserved that. He's not even going to argue it in the least. In fact, he makes a mental pledge right then to let Castiel get it all out in person too if need be, even if it results in Dean getting hammered with insults. He can take it. His thick skin comes in handy with being a cop and in situations like this.

"Cas, wait." Dean catches the other man's wrist when he starts to walk off. "We're—_I'm_ sorry."

Castiel doesn't say a word instead pulling his wrist from Dean's grip. He then walks over to a cart of books and starts to push it along to another row of shelves. He's heard of how forgiving people say the youngest Volkov son is, but perhaps that's _why_ Castiel is giving Dean the cold shoulder. Perhaps he's been taken advantage of one too many times for his kindness.

Dean's seen what happens to Sam over the years. Kindness isn't a weakness, but people take it as one. Sam's given people chance after chance and they just shit all over him, something Dean never stood for. So really, he can't blame Castiel's mental wall shooting up to guard him the way Dean had done for Sam.

That's the thing though. While Sam is the kind and empathetic brother, Dean is the stubborn one.

"Cas, come on. Just let me explain," he finds himself blurting, following after Castiel without care for the dirty looks he's receiving from a couple of the other workers.

Castiel keeps pushing the cart along, eyes focused ahead—which is exactly why Dean slips around and in front. Castiel practically plows him over, but Dean's torso-heavy strength comes in handy in successfully stopping him.

"Cas, come on, man. Sam and I don't have it out to get you." A disgruntled sigh through purely the nostrils comes from the man across from him and Dean gives an uneasy smile. "I made a mistake. I shouldn't have told your roomie who your brother is. But I was mad, okay? You didn't exactly inform us of that."

The wide-eyed, furrowed brow look directing Dean's way is a precursor to the hard shove Castiel gives the cart. Taken off guard, Dean curses when his shoed toe gets run over. Well, strength or not, if you're unfocused, shit happens.

"_Fuck_. Don't be so aggressive. I'm just trying to apologize. And—and that really hurt."

Perhaps finally giving up, or if Dean didn't know any better a little out of guilt for running his foot over, Castiel slams his hands down onto the cart handle and storms off in the opposite direction. Dean quickly follows after him and ignores the stares they're both getting from patrons around the building.

Dean figures Castiel is beyond pissed if he's taking a sort of fit, but Dean's not going to give up. He and Sam spent a good portion of their day in guilt and searching for a new place for the guy to live in. They're not the horrible people Castiel now likely believes they are.

Dean is going to prove him wrong.

By the time his hand is clasping Castiel's, fingers pressing into the Volkov's palm, the two are by the little room Sam and Dean typically reserve. Castiel's body screeches to a halt and then he whips mostly around with a scowl.

"Can you not take a hint?" he finally snaps.

The detective sighs and squeezes his hand gently, causing a more confused expression to distort Castiel's features.

"Look," Dean starts, rubbing his free hand along the back of his neck, "we came here to apologize. We spent all day trying to make it up to you by searching for a new apartment, like we promised. We get it. We're lousy detectives. Especially me. I'm a selfish, pig-headed bastard. But for fuck's sake, can't you just let us make it up to you?"

Out of all of the times Dean has screwed someone over, he's never felt so sincerely guilty. He's almost certain part of his discomfort of potentially having a stranger live with him is _because_ of that guilt. If it weren't for them, Castiel would be fine. If it weren't for _Dean_, Castiel would be fine.

It's Dean's fault, not Sam's, and yet Sam was the one quick to try and make it up to Castiel right away. He was the one who said they'd look for a new apartment for Cas. He was the one who swore they'd let Cas crash with them in the meantime. It's finally sinking in and Dean's feeling the brunt of it as he grips Cas' hand tightly. Damn, he's a shitty person.

Perhaps this is what everyone meant when they spoke of Castiel's kindness. His features are unreadable momentarily as he scans over Dean's, eyes eventually flicking down toward their hands. Then, as if reading into Dean's sincere guilt, Castiel pulls his hand from Dean's grip and completely turns to face him.

Castiel's lips part but close just as quickly, a moment of silence passing. It's as if he is contemplating what to say fully, thoughts lost on the hopeful yet guilty look in Dean's eyes.  
A small sigh finally breaks the silence. "Fine," the older man begins, crossing his arms. "You want to make it up to me so badly? An apartment is something I can find on my own. I hated living there anyway, so it's a blessing in disguise."

There's a cooling through-out his veins that's calming Dean down some, though he's not sure if he should trust it. After all, Castiel's words are screaming "but" and Dean's just waiting for the punchline.

"What you both can do, however—" Castiel's arms slip down and one hand digs around in his pocket. He retrieves a piece of paper he then holds out to Dean. Here it comes. "—is protect me."

"Huh? From what? And what is this?"

"My brother is throwing a gala for my birthday," Castiel clarifies while Dean's eyes scan the fancy paper ticket. This thing reeks VIP with its fancy gold etching and thick cardstock.

"So you want me to protect you from streamers and eating too much cake? Nausea's a bitch, I'm sure."

"No, _assbutt_. I want you and Sam to protect me from my brother's poor career choice."

"Excuse me?"

Castiel rolls his eyes. "My brother Luke, remember? The one you got me kicked out of my apartment over." Oh, sure. Rub that bit in again, why don't ya?

Dean wonders briefly what he's getting himself into, but presses further. "I thought you didn't have much to do with your mafia relatives."

"I don't. He's always hounding me though. For this event, he insisted I come. Appearance is everything to him and he wants it to look like we're tender, loving siblings for his friends."

"Huh."

Something shifts in Castiel's expression the moment he continues explaining. It's a little broken, _vulnerable_, and Dean's full attention is caught with ease. "Thing is, last time I went to one of his little events, I ended up in a luxury hospital wing then stuck at home for a while and even longer in a PTSD treatment program."

Dean's mouth drops open in a small gape and Castiel shrugs. "My physical and psycho therapists were at least quite good," he adds, as if to lighten his words.

"Shit," Dean manages, shoulders slumping and hands shoving into his pockets, "that bad?"

"_That_ doesn't even begin to describe its level of bad." A swift motion of fingers is gently rolling up the bottom of his shirt as Castiel turns his back towards Dean. Dean's eyes trace a long narrow scar straight up the older man's spine, stopping just below his shoulder blades. "Ugly, isn't it?"

Dean doesn't know what to say. He's speechless at seeing the aftermath that resembles what he and Sam could've gone through. During their mob encounters, both were beaten and bruised, and needless to say mentally fucked, but that scar on Castiel's back? That is a surgery scar no doubt. _Spinal_ surgery. Ugh. He shudders to think what caused Castiel to need that. A fall? A knife? A bullet?

"I wouldn't say ugly. Maybe severe, but certainly not ugly." Perhaps Sam's sympathetic capabilities have rubbed off on him over the years after all.

"I appreciate your sensitivity, but I know how it looks. My physician advises me to check on it despite how much time has passed. I have a lot of mirrors in my possession for that reason."

The deep frown across Castiel's features shows in his voice before Dean can even see his face. He tucks his shirt in and turns back around, eyes seemingly unable to focus on Dean for too long. Credit to Castiel, that was pretty personal to share with a stranger. Dean is expecting some level of discomfort.

"So."

"So?"

"If you and Sam truly want to make things up to me, _protect me_."

Dean's been in the business long enough to know when he hears _fear_. The shaky, soft manner Castiel says the last two words of that sentence smash straight through his guilt so hard it physically hurts. Evidently, it also brings up a very valid question Dean can't help asking.

"Couldn't you just, I dunno, say 'no'?"

The frown across Castiel's lips grows deeper and he shakes his head. "You clearly don't know my brother very well despite the excessive amount of research you've likely done on him, detective."

Castiel takes the ticket from Dean and grips the other man's hand, exchanging the ticket with something else from his pocket instead. When Dean feels the tickle of a pen tip meeting his palm, he glances at Castiel in confusion.

"What's—?"

"Date and time. Don't be late."

Whelp. It looks like he's been volunteered without getting a chance to say his two cents. Dean's not complaining though; he sees this as an opportunity. Both Winchester's have been meeting a lot of deadends and coming face to face directly with the source can help change that. They just have to remember where to draw the line is all. Castiel's scar is a painful reminder of that.

"Hey, uh, Cas?" Dean glances from the scribbled "invite" on his hand to sapphire blues.

"Hmm?"

"You're not doing this solely because you're still pissed at Sam and me and holding a grudge, right?"

A wicked gleam flashes through the Volkov's eyes and the corners of his lips curl into a smirk. While it's not exactly the kind of smile Dean is fond of, he's glad to see it regardless. It's at least better than the deep self-conscious frown Castiel was previously sporting.

"I did mention this was to make it up to me, didn't I?"

Dean manages a half-chuckle, disbelief shrouding his tone. To think he fell for this so damn easily. Fucking guilt. "You are one clever albeit spiteful bastard."


End file.
